


Little Bird

by kassanovella



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst probably, Choking, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Dom!Kylo Ren, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dystopia, Explicit Violent Christian Themes, F/M, Handmaid's Tale AU, Kylo Ren Has a Big Dick, Probably some other fucked up shit I haven't thought of yet, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, sub!Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassanovella/pseuds/kassanovella
Summary: You are a new Handmaid, your first assignment is at the home of Commander Kylo Ren. His Wife hates you. And you wished he did, too. It'd make it much easier to ignore the way he looks at you, the way he speaks to you, when she isn't there. But the hardest thing to ignore is the way he touches you.





	1. Make Me Your Last

_“You’re beautiful…”_

_Hands. Firm. Strong. Pulling at your hips, your thighs, your breasts, bruising you, soothing you. A mouth. Wet. Desperate. A frenzy of kisses down your neck, your clavicle, to your sternum, above the terrified thumping of your heart. Your blood is red, his lips are red, the sheets are red, the air is_ red. _You inhale a plea and exhale a prayer. There are two figures, but only one writhes and whines and gasps, only one works like an instrument tuned to the key of your body. Sweat. Flesh. Breath. You want to remember this. You need to remember--to remember--_

_“Tell me what you want…”_

Sweat stained your nape, your red-gloved hands wringing together as you waited. The dream was far from an anomaly--but it was equally as far from being wanted. The last thing you needed on the day you were to meet your first Commander was a set of wet panties. There would be no Ceremony, tonight (thankfully), but you were nervous that there’d be an inspection, instead, or something. Maybe one of the Marthas would examine you, check you like a race horse--healthy hocks, clear eyes, shiny hair, clean mouth… and cleaner morals.

The door swung open--and your lips pinched together. Rather than the lifeless green dress of a Martha, you were greeted with the swishing jewel-blue skirt of a _Wife_. His Wife. You swallowed, sweat seeping into the white base of your wimple. This was not what you were told would happen. 

“Are you going to stand there, or are you going to come in?” Her voice was gravelly. Demanding. 

You nodded, stepping over the stone threshold onto the polished wood of the foyer. His Wife said nothing, turning sharp on her heel and marching down a hall. The sound of shoes on ceramic ricocheted through the empty air, an alarm. You tilted your head to the sides, eyes darting to the walls to discern your new surroundings. The decorations were modest, wide windows streaming light onto white painted walls lined with the occasional artistic tribute to the Old Testament. Your Commander’s Wife swept around a corner, and as you glanced up, you caught her peek over her shoulder, ensuring your obedience.

Before you turned, you heard another voice in the corridor, breathy and soft. “Oh! I’m on my way, ma’am, don’t--” Your presence halted her, and you blushed. A Martha. “You-- _you_ got her, Ms. Johana?”

“Yes,” replied his Wife. Johana. “And why shouldn’t I? He’s _my_ husband.”

You stood at the corner of the room, an elephant in a red dress. The Martha, with little else to say, stepped aside, and you resumed your pursuit of Johana, who charged through the dining hall and around another corner, stopping bluntly at the mouth of a staircase. She whipped her head around, scrutinizing you, her nose wrinkling.

“Not talkative,” she said. “I like you better than the last one already.” When you didn’t respond, she sniffed, gathered her skirts, and tromped up the steps.

Planes of shadow concealed the staircase, growing somehow darker the higher you ascended, the only evidence of freedom a few thin rays of light, casting across the empty hall and illuminating the floating flecks of dust in the air. The wood at your feet was dark, struck through with lines of age and wear. As you reached the top, the hall stretched out as a tunnel in front of you, rooms branching off on both sides. You shifted, and the floor creaked, squeaking under you like you’d woken it from sleep. 

Johana turned, nodding toward the end of the hall. “You stay there. During hours when the Commander is home, you are not to leave that room unless asked. Is that understood?”

You nodded.

“No,” she said. “ _Is that understood_?”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” you replied. You were surprised at how small your voice sounded under the arch of the ceiling.

“Good.” Her shoulders fell in a slow breath. “You were informed the Ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” you replied. “N-no. I wasn’t.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you have.” Straightening her back again, she glided past you. “Get to your room. He will be home shortly.” You nodded, listening to her steps fade as you bustled beyond the door she’d identified as yours.

The room was spartan in design--you’d been afforded a tiny, circular window, a clinically sparse twin bed, and a single dresser, barely large enough to house your dress. Chewing on your lip, you sat at the edge of the mattress, peering out of the window, gazing over the yard of your new home. Like the house itself, the land was massive, sprawling out like a manicured meadow, replete with razor rectangular hedges and rows of colorful annual gardens. In the center of these, there was a fountained pond, shimmering in the afternoon heat. A worn, iron bench rested to the side of the pond--you wondered what it would be like to sit there, let the warmth bathe your skin, let your toes soak in the cool water.

You shivered, staring at your cloaked hands, the piles of fabric obscuring your feet. They seemed foreign to you, like the limbs of another woman had been stuck to your body. They couldn’t be yours, these extensions of compliance--not when you could still remember what it’d been like to look a man in the eyes, when you could still remember how it felt to raise your voice, let your cheeks rage hot. It couldn’t have been you, growing small at the corner of the frame, a hunching red smock, shoulders sagged with the weight of your new reality. It couldn’t have been, you thought--but you felt your own pulse pound at your throat, felt the band of perspiration around your own brow. Swallowing, you clutched the neck of your wimple and collapsed back onto the bed, your heart sinking through the floor.

You weren’t sure how long you stared into the ceiling--just that it had been long enough to spike your eyes with tears, until, bidden by either exhaustion or by boredom or maybe both, you drifted off into sleep.

_“That’s it…”_

_He knows, somehow. Somehow, he knows the precise pressure with which to brush your clit, he knows the exact moment to release you--that point when your breath hitches, catching on the inevitability of orgasm. He leaves you there, for only a moment, smothers you, his mouth on your lips, your breasts, your sex. You want him, you think, you need him--your body is being drawn and quartered by hunger, stretching further for desire than you think is physically possible. It’s inside of you, a thrashing black-red tangle of need, scratch marks behind your skin, the frenzied attempt to claw free, to break out, to devour you both._

_“Good girl,” he says, “cum for me…”_

_You split open, the treacherous mass within you spinning out like loose thread from a spool, winding over your hips, your thighs, your knees, your shoulders, your fingers, sealing you tight around the white bliss that’s shredding through your nerves. It’s good, so incredibly, perfectly good, you groan, you whine, you shake, gasping…_

“Good evening.”

Your eyes snapped open, and you sucked in a breath, scrambling to your feet and bowing your head. You didn’t need to be told even once--you’d known it was him, and you’d known what was expected. Pleasure crept through the edges of your body as you surveyed the floor--shadows of your dream. You could tell from the dampness of your skin and your hardened nipples that you’d came in your sleep. Shame could have swallowed you whole. If simple daydreams were embarrassing, how on earth should you classify wet dreams?

“Ah. Um. Good evening, Commander.” It was evening, right? Yes, the sun was setting. God, you hoped he couldn’t tell. Could he tell? He couldn’t tell, right?

“I see you’ve already met my Wife.” His voice was deep, soft, like the floor of a midnight forest. It made you want to see his face. “I imagined you’d want to become acquainted with me before tomorrow.”

This was unusual, to your knowledge. Speaking with--or acknowledging the humanity of a Handmaid in any way was not typical. You remembered how his Wife had ordered you to stay in your room if he was home--and wondered, now, if there was reasoning behind it. 

“Nice to meet you.” That sounded stupid. _Nice to meet you_? Were you a new classmate? “Um. Goodnight, then.”

“Mm. Not so fast.” He stepped once, crossing the threshold into your room. Your chest iced over. “Look at me.”

Your eyes leapt from side to side. You wanted to. You just weren’t sure if you should.

“Look at me.”

Holding your breath, you did--and nearly forgot to breathe again. You should have felt disgust, revulsion at the man who, given his rank, you _knew_ to be responsible for your current predicament. But instead of that--or hatred, or even fear--the very first emotion you felt was a hot streak of lust. Horrified at yourself, you stuffed it down, but were unable to shake the notion that he was… not-ugly. High cheekbones and plush lips and hazel eyes, capped with thick, shoulder-length waves of dark hair, his black, bespoke suit accentuating his towering height and broad shoulders. He was--almost beautiful. And yet, you knew.

It was strange, coming face-to-face for one of the men who had orchestrated your role. Given all of the re-education, you imagined you should have been reverent, like staring into the face of a demigod, or a local monarch. But all that would cycle through your brain was confusion. On one hand, you felt the distant desire to punch him in the gut. On the other, you wanted nothing more than for him to praise you.

He stepped forward again, and you averted your gaze, trembling as the shine of his Oxfords crossed into your sight. Something brushed your chin, and you flinched, face reddening as you realized it was his fingers. He was turning you. Examining you. Now, _this_ , you knew, was unorthodox.

“Prettier than the last one,” he murmured, as if he were appraising a slab of meat. Though, you supposed--to him, you were. “Do you know my name?”

Nausea flooded you. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell me.”

How could you not know it? His named informed your own. You were Ofkylo. And he was--

“Kylo Ren.”

“Good,” he said, and patted your cheek. “Good girl.”

The words revived the dissolving memory of your dream, and you shuddered against your will, thighs clenching underneath your skirts. The heat inside of you radiated from your skin like flames--you were certain he felt it, that, at the very least, he knew you were impure. You wanted to shove yourself through the porthole window like a crimson cork and pop out into the pond, become steam as you hit the cold water, dissipate into the air.

“You’re turning red.” He pinched your chin. “Why?”

Don’t look at him. “Nervous to be meeting you.” At least you were being _somewhat_ honest. “You’re, um, my first Commander.”

“Am I?” He turned your face toward his. You still refused to meet his eyes. “With any hope, tomorrow night will make me your last.”

A chill shot up your spine. He could have meant one of two things--neither of them was particularly appealing. You hoped for one more than the other. “Y-yes, sir.”

“I hope it will be pleasant,” he said, “though, likely nothing like your dream.”

Your lungs stopped. For a moment, your heart did too. “I-I’m sorry?”

“Your dream.” His thumb traced the curve of your lower lip, and you stifled a whimper. “You might think I’m callous, but I remember what pleasure looks like. And you…” His nail pressed into the flesh. “... were enjoying yourself.”

By some miracle of nature, your knees did not buckle--and you were thankful for this, for the position you would have landed in would have been even more compromising than your current one. Your heart was throbbing in your chest, beating down to your fingertips. No words would leave, because none would form in your brain to begin with. Breath leaked from your nose, and you felt it skim his hand. 

“Sir! Excuse me, sir! Ms. Johana requests you!” The voice sliced between you like a cleaver. It was another Martha, from down the steps. 

“In a moment,” he called back, still fixated on you.

“She says _immediately_ , sir!”

The smallest, slightest sigh blew through his nostrils. “Fine,” he said, and then lowered his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, little bird.” He dropped you, and you could breathe again, every joint in your body shaking as he retreated into the hall. “And be _good_.”

The door closed behind him, and you crumbled onto your knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re confused, this is a Handmaid’s Tale AU, because I love that novel so much. Feel free to read a synopsis online if you’ve never read the book (though I highly recommend reading it!)
> 
> This AU was created on my blog, kylorengarbagedump.tumblr.com. It was conceived with the help of user checktheholonet, who I credit for both the themes in this piece, AND, most importantly, the title. Thank you SO MUCH, you are incredible and your writing is gorgeous. Anyway, welcome to my new fic. Love y'all so much!


	2. Be Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your Commander is an "extremist"--and you need to stay away from him. Whatever that means.

At night, your body and brain swarmed with thoughts of the Commander. His appearance, his… _beauty_ had unsteadied you, sure, but what terrified you was his demeanor. You could still feel the ghost of his fingers at your chin, pinching you, angling you back and forth, the searing heat of his gaze boring through your flesh. You thought of his voice, like a deep sea echo, drowning you in the sin of his speech. _I remember what pleasure looks like_ , he’d said. Be good.

It was wrong. This was wrong. In your bed, you writhed, your thighs grinding together, seeking friction, seeking pressure. You could do it--sneak your hand between your legs, find your clit, buried underneath the layers and layers of chaste fabric, like a jewel stashed for safekeeping. But fear kept your wrists latched to your sides, kept your body cool. _Be good_. It was an admonishment. An order. Bitterly, you wondered if _he_ ever had to be good. Johana’s face flashed in your memory. Perhaps he did.

You awoke the next morning with a pool of dread in your gut, gathering thick and heavy as you dressed. Beyond your window, white ripples of light shimmered off of the pond, its surface shattered by the wind. A bird hopped along the pond’s edge, cocking its head at its reflection before flitting off into the gardens. You tightened your wimple around your neck, securing the wings at the side of your face. If only it were that easy.

Steeling yourself, you opened your door and stifled a yelp, finding a Martha stooped there, her ear pressed to where the wood of the entrance had been. Her face flushed with blood, and she scrambled up, trying to dart away.

“Wait!” you whispered. “Don’t just leave.”

“I’m sorry!” Her voice was small and high--it was the first Martha from the day before. “I just, um--well--” Her plump hands trembled as she inched backwards.

“It’s okay!” You reached out, but stopped yourself, recognizing the urge to comfort as a relic from another time. “It’s okay. I’m not--it doesn’t matter.”

The Martha turned, tossing a glance over her shoulder before straightening her back, dusting off her bib and adjusting the locks of red hair that had fallen loose. She was short and stocky, with round, soft cheeks that were still dusted pink. Her eyes, wide and sea-green, scanned you.

“Please don’t tell the Commander,” she said. “He isn’t supposed to know.”

You frowned. “Know what?”

“That Ms. Johana has me watching you,” she mumbled.

Something squeezed your heart. “Watching me?”

The Martha nodded. “Yes. She wants me to make sure you’re--well-- _behaving_ , I guess.”

“Behaving.” You remembered him crossing into the room. “Shouldn’t she--”

“Shh!” She pressed her finger to her lips. “Quieter.”

“Sorry,” you replied, lowering your voice again. “Shouldn’t she be making sure _he_ behaves, instead?”

She stared, blank, as if you’d spoken another language. Peeking over her shoulder again, she crept forward. “He’s not the one she can punish.”

A fair point. “Well,” you said, “she doesn’t have anything to worry about. I’m not really interested in being hanged.” 

The Martha raised an eyebrow. “I know he was here last night.”

Your face burned, and you swallowed, wanting to tear off your wimple. It was tight, too tight around your neck. “Are you going to tell her?”

A long moment passed as she considered you, rolling back on her heels and crossing her arms. Your heart was a rock, crashing into your ribcage, the sound of its beat like a drum in your ears. There was no protocol for this. Grimacing, she sighed, dropping her hands to her sides and bowing her head.

“No,” she said. “I won’t.” There was something going through her head--something she didn’t say. “I don’t want to be responsible for another one.”

You choked on your own breath. “A-another one?”

The sound of shattering porcelain jolted you both forward, a ragged snarl of frustration following it. “Ugh! Can you do anything right?” It was Johana.

The Martha winced. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” you said. “Can’t you tell me--”

“ _Later_ ,” she hissed, and paused, before turning. “I’m Emma. And you should stay in your room, today. She’s… not in a good mood.” She gathered her skirts in her hands, shuffled down the hall and bounded down the stairs. “Coming, Ms. Johana!”

You stood there, almost certain the amount of sweat in your armpits had seeped through your dress--which, for some reason, you were concerned about. What if Johana saw? What if the Commander did? Maybe they’d wonder why you’d been so hot. Sheepish, you peeked under your arms. Nothing. Thank God. At least something was going right. Your legs still refused to move, Emma’s words swirling in your head. You knew that you were expected to walk to the market this morning, but the thought of inciting Johana’s palpable rage petrified you. Briefly, you feared that it was a set-up. Maybe staying in the room would make things worse. But Emma had nothing to gain by hiding her knowledge of the Commander coming to you--that sliver of trust would have to be enough.

You tip-toed your way back into the room, easing the door shut behind you and crawling back onto your bed. It’d been less than 24 hours, and your stay at Commander Kylo Ren’s home was already giving you heart palpitations. All of your time at the Red Center had failed to prepare you for a Wife who wanted your every movement documented. It had certainly failed to prepare you for a Commander who--you shuddered--grabbed your chin and patted your cheek and told you to _be good_.

Between them both, you were just a body, stranded in the sands of an arid desert--and they were bickering vultures, each seeking to strip you of flesh and leave your bones to bleach in the sun. Fighting back left you vulnerable to evisceration. Your only choice was to remain still, watch their shadows circle you, and hope.

The arc of the sun crested over its peak, minutes turning to hours as the light in your room shifted with the drag of time. The day seemed to you like one long, exhausted breath, spilling from your lungs like fog, filling your room with all of its cloudy weariness. Staring into a ceiling was nothing new, for you--and now the view had changed, giving you an opportunity to memorize an entirely fresh set of threaded cracks. You imagined reaching up and digging your nails into them, prying them open like tiny canyons, turning your ceiling into a gaping mouth that could swallow you whole.

But your back remained flat on the mattress.

Pale yellow had dimmed to golden orange when a muted knock came from the door. You sat up, heart already skipping. “Yes?”

Wood creaked as it opened, revealing a green dress beyond it. Emma. “Dinner,” she said, holding a silver tray in front of her. 

You sighed. Though you weren’t sure what kind of food you’d been expecting, a bowl of grey slurry hadn’t been high on the list. Not that you were hungry, anyway. Face falling, you caught Emma’s gaze as she placed the bowl by your bed. 

“Looks good,” you murmured, regarding it like hazardous waste.

Emma’s mouth twisted, her voice almost softer than her breath. “Ms. Johana insisted.”

“I see.” For whatever reason, your Commander’s Wife was insistent on making your life as miserable as possible. What had you been told in the Center? That one day, Handmaids would be regarded as daughters by Wives? You snorted. “Is she always like this?”

Pursing her lips, Emma checked over her shoulder, sneaking to the entrance to observe the hall before easing the door half shut. She hopped over to you like a chubby, cautious rabbit. “It’s what I was saying before,” she muttered. “About there being others.”

“Others?” you replied. “With an ‘ess’?” 

She nodded. “You’re maybe the third. That’s been through here.”

All blood in your body pooled in your feet. Your heart was suspended over a void. “T-the third.”

“The Commander…” Emma looked to the ceiling, considering. “He’s very serious. About the duty that’s been given to him.”

“The duty...” Your brow furrowed, your eyes falling to your lap--red dress, and everything it concealed. “Reproduction.”

She bowed her head. “He’s… an extremist.” A pause. “Ms. Johana--well--she, uh, disagrees.”

“Oh.” Crimson crinkled in your fists. “W-what does that mean for me?”

Footsteps--quick and hollow--sounded below. Emma stood, tucking the tray under her arm. “I have to go,” she said. “You want my advice--stay away from the Commander.” 

You nodded. “T-thank you,” you said. “Why are you so kind?”

She shrugged. Downstairs, Johana hollered, her voice like cracking glass. 

“ _Emma_! Can you please clean this mess in the den, he will be home any _second_ now!”

“I have my reasons,” Emma said, wincing. She ducked out and took off down the hall. You heard her mumble under her breath, “I _just cleaned_ the den…”

Heart racing, you scrambled to close the door behind her before turning and facing your excuse for dinner. More unusual treatment. Unsure if you’d even be able to choke down a spoonful, you grabbed the bowl, cradling it in your hand as you guided a single bite into your mouth. Well--could you really call it a bite? The slurry slid onto your tongue like mucus, oozing toward your throat inch by viscous inch. You gagged, tears collecting as you swallowed, convinced you felt it settling in the pit of your stomach. Lip curling, you returned the bowl to the floor, wiping your face and plopping back onto your bed. 

The sky was dimming. The only sound in your ears was your own restrained breath. _Stay away from the Commander_. It seemed like solid advice. You just wondered why she’d needed to give it in the first place. But then you imagined the heat of his body, only inches from yours, the calloused strength of his fingers on your chin, his voice, dark and deep and flooding your body with forbidden longing. Squirming, you tugged at the skirts on your hips, treating your sex like a disobedient dog. 

_Stay away from the Commander_ , you repeated, _stay away from the Commander_. You did not exist for romance, you did not exist for pleasure--you did not, in fact, exist. Your humanity was a mere inconvenience to the coveted treasure within your body. To act otherwise was to tempt punishment, to attempt to dream in a world where you could not sleep. You were chained from the inside, shackled to your own organs with viscera and blood.

In the silence of the falling night, you heard it--the crescendo of an engine, rolling like a wave over the gardens, its distant hum stirring your pulse. Your throat swelled shut, cheeks rushing red. Every beat of your heart seemed to come between long, breathless moments, moments where your ears burned from the emptiness of the air, moments where your body tensed and untensed, begging you for an order.

“ _Emma_!” you heard Johana shout, muffled by the door. “He’s _home_!”

Her voice was followed by bounding steps, a one-woman stampede down the hall to the door, and all you could do was watch as it burst open. Emma hung onto the doorknob, breathless, urging you forward.

“It’s time,” she said. “The Ceremony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter two! I really really appreciate all the encouraging comments, so far! I love knowing other people enjoy this book too. And, even if that's not the case, I hope that you want to read it!
> 
> I love you all! You're amazing. See you next week. <3


	3. An Error More Egregious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your first Ceremony goes as planned. Or, it kind of does. Can one really plan for something like this?

You descended the stairs, heart in your throat, toes at Emma’s heels. You knew what was to come next--you remembered this, if anything, after having practiced it for a period of time that you imagined to be months. You weren’t sure, though. It could have been days. Or years. It all had melted together, anyway. 

She led you into a den; two ornate, mahogany chairs sat at the head of the room, adjacent to the worn limestone hearth. Glass lamps emitted golden light, gilding the walls and turning it to a palace before your eyes. It was warm--so warm, you almost mistakenly felt welcome, as if your comfort and happiness were a priority. But you knew better. So you followed your brain’s commands, floating as a wisp to the center of the den and descending to your knees. Your skirts piled around you like a red mushroom cap, your white-wimpled head the upended stem.

Kneeling there, you stared into the floor, torrents of blood tearing through your body, rushing loud in the shells of your ears. Around you, movement. One Martha--Emma, you guessed--fell to her knees beside you, and then another, the one whose name you did not know. Only feet in front of you, the blue hem of Johana’s skirt skimmed the perimeter of your sight as she took the second chair--the one next to what could only be described as the throne.

It was large, made for a frame twice the size of yours, upholstered in fresh, blood-red velvet. It was where the Commander would sit, you were sure, when he arrived. Face hot, you glanced to the entrance, but caught Johana’s gaze instead.

“Don’t look so anxious,” she hissed under her breath. “There’s nothing to be excited about.”

Before you could bow your head, the floorboards shuddered underneath you, heavy footsteps sending shockwaves through your veins. You swore they’d been petrified. Holding your breath, you watched, knowing Johana was watching you, studying your face, hunting for any moment of weakness. The steps stopped, and the door squeaked open, thick oak swinging to reveal your Commander.

Seeing him again stole the breath you’d been holding, and when he met your eyes, the air vaporized. Time moved like wind through tall grass, your attention chained to him as he entered. He stepped forward, a graceful predator, his dark hair framing his face, his gaze cementing you to the floor with every passing nanosecond he stared. You couldn’t wrench yourself away, even knowing Johana could see, even knowing _she knew_ what was happening. He was seducing you, there, in front of her, in front of everyone, his eyes like amber pools of lust, hardening around you and casting you in resin desire. 

You swallowed, lips parting--and he turned, breaking the spell, leaving you gasping and breathless as he took his seat beside his Wife. Cheeks burning, you dropped your head toward the floor, your heart pounding in your temple. Johana had seen it all. You were certain. You cursed your errant, disrespectful cunt. 

“What was that?” It wasn’t to him--but it wasn’t necessarily to you, either. The question hung, a challenge to the sexual energy in the air. “I saw that. What was that?”

Flames fanned at your face, your lips tight over your teeth. In your lap, your hands trembled.

“I’m unsure to what you are referring,” Ren said coolly. “I have to begin the reading.”

Johana sucked in a sharp breath of air. “N-no. No, you don’t.” Her voice was tremulous. “You need to explain. Explain what that was.”

“Do I?” he asked. Your eyes remained locked on the floor, but you heard shuffling from his seat. “I wasn’t aware I owed you an explanation on anything.”

“Well, you do!” she snapped.

Beside you, the Marthas shifted, stuffing their gasps. You would have gasped, too--but your lungs were still empty, your body still frozen to the joints. Your Commander didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

Johana seemed to regain her sanity, pausing for a moment. “I didn’t mean you, Sir. The, um. The Handmaid. Shared inappropriate eye contact with you. _She_ needs to explain.”

Blood filled your cheeks. You were suddenly drenched in your own sweat, beads at your hairline slipping over your skin. Opening your dry mouth, you went to speak--but nothing left. 

“Did she?” There hadn’t been so much as a flinch. “I hadn’t noticed.” Rustling of pages--the Bible--as he thumbed through the passages. “To begin today’s--”

“B-but, Sir,” Johana insisted. You almost marvelled at her bravery. “Laws state--”

“I’m well aware of the laws, _Johana_.” Her name was venom on his tongue. “Unless you believe I’ve forgotten the very regulations I’m bound to uphold.”

You watched her feet inch together from the edge of your sight. “No, Sir.”

“I wonder, now…” He stood, stammering your heart in your chest. “You wouldn’t be trying to _disrupt_ the Ceremony, would you?” 

“Oh, no--”

“Because if you _were_...” The Bible plopped with a solid _thud_ onto the seat of his chair. Slow, methodical footsteps circled her. “I’d say that’s an error more egregious than incidental eye contact.” He stopped, and you peeked through your lashes. He was in front of her, looming, daring her to continue her challenge. “Wouldn’t you?”

Johana’s attention darted between her husband and you--catching her glance, you whipped your head toward the floor again. “Yes, Sir,” she murmured. She was admitting defeat. For now.

“Good,” he said. “I agree. But…” You heard him grab the Bible. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I don’t need to begin the reading. Perhaps I don’t need to do the reading at all.”

Ice filtered into your blood.

“What?” Johana’s question left her in a sputtered laugh.

Ren paused for a moment--you felt the cast of his eyes on your cowered frame. “Go upstairs. Prepare for the Ceremony. I’ll be in shortly.”

With that, he left, the dull click of his shoes disappearing down the hall. You were a mannequin, unwilling to volunteer the first movement, and so were the Marthas. Together, you imagined you looked like a display in one of the old malls, modeling a fashion collection meant only to speculate. Except that your life was no speculation. This was it.

After what seemed like eternal silent moments, Johana stood, clearing her throat. “You heard him, Emma. Rose.” The Marthas stirred. Rose--Rose was the other one. “Get to it. And _you_ ,” she spat, kicking her foot in your direction. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You scrambled to your feet, stumbling over the volume of your skirts and the knocking of your knees. Embers had replaced your skin, every scrape of fabric like sandpaper. It wasn’t as if you’d never had sex--but the thought of seeing him over you. His length sliding inside of your body. Would he be gentle? Would he be--big? Your face glowed with heat. Johana met your eyes and scowled, nodding toward the other end of the den before marching through it. Whimpering, you scampered behind her as she led you to the other end of the house--far past where you stayed.

“I know what I saw,” she murmured. “I’m not an idiot.”

Your chin quivered. “Um, I don’t think you are, ma’am--”

“Shut up.” Her small hands curled into fists. “I’m watching you, girl. Just know I can do with you what I’ve done with the others.”

“Um. O-okay.”

In silence, you ascended another staircase, this one coiling up toward the ceiling in a tight, iron spiral. Your head swam with fear, the world whirling around you like a top--and the stairs were only making it worse. _What I’ve done with the others_. That needed no defining. _Stay away from the Commander_. Neither did that. And somehow, you needed to abide by this advice while simultaneously preparing to receive his semen. An unbidden shiver raced through you. 

_Dammit._

Johana led you through the hall. Large, clear windows revealed the encroaching darkness, the dying sun emptying the vestiges of its light into the sky. A blackbird flitted across the pink-orange dusk, its silhouette like an imitation of freedom. A door marked the end of the hall, and Johana stopped, fishing a key out from her sleeve and popping it into the knob. You wondered, briefly, if there was a lock on your door. Wondered if it served to keep you in--or the Commander out.

The second you passed the threshold, she yanked it shut behind you. Wincing, you wrung your gloved hands together, appraising their bedroom. A bed sat at the opposite end of the room, facing the door. It was enormous--bigger than any you’d ever seen. Even a king-sized mattress wasn’t as impressive. Its sheets were dark and luxurious, the frame an ebony wood that supported a thin purple canopy. Black velvet curtains were drawn over the windows, the only light coming from a single lamp and the white taper candles that Johana was leaping to light.

The rest of the space echoed its centerpiece--a construction of dramatic darkness, a reproduction of a storybook bedroom. As warm yellow fire filled the air, Johana wagged the final match cold and left it on the nightstand before turning to you, her stone face half-cast in darkness. The air was dead.

“Are you going to get ready, or are you just going to stand there?” 

Swallowing, you nodded, inching off to the side of the bed for privacy, turning your back toward Johana as you gathered your skirts above your hips. The fabric was heavy and hot in your hands, hotter still as you worked the modest excuse for underwear down over your hips and feet. When you were finished, you pulled yourself up onto the bed, forcing yourself to ignore the soft give of the mattress or the smoothness of the sheets. You imagined your Commander sleeping there every night, his long, black hair tousled over his face. 

_Dammit._

Johana sighed, joining you, your body rigid while she guided her legs to either side of you and eased your head onto her stomach. 

“Down further,” she said. “Toward the edge.”

You nodded, scooting to the edge, allowing her to adjust your position until your calves dangled over the end. She touched and dropped you with the same affection one might treat a pail of vomit. When she finished, you heard her lungs expand--as if she were about to say something--but before she could speak, the door opened, and she snatched up your hands in hers like she’d been holding them the entire time. The bones crackled.

“Good evening, Sir,” said Johana. 

The Commander closed the door behind him, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt while his eyes traveled over the both of you. “Johana,” he replied. “You’re ready.”

“I am.”

“Not you,” he said--and met your gaze. You clenched. “Her.”

Johana’s hands gave yours a sharp squeeze. 

“Oh.” Saliva clogged your throat. “Y-yes. Sir.”

He sauntered forward, thickening the air with every step. “Good.” 

Dark eyes, honeyed in the candlelight, roamed over your lower body, forcing your cunt to clench against its will. His lip twitched, and he stepped closer, taking the hem of your skirts in his large hands. Johana’s grip tightened as he peeled them up over your hips, exposing you to his stare. He held them high, examining you. Gold fire flashed in his irises. One hand, hidden by the curtain of your skirt, skated over the sensitive mound of your pussy, touch like sparks to tinder--and he dropped the fabric. You bit your lip, stifling the whine that wanted to leave. 

“Very good.” The depth of his voice made you question what exactly he was praising.

Part of you couldn’t believe how bold he was being--and the other part wished he would freaking _stop_ , because he was going to get you either shipped off to the Colonies or strung out on a rope and you just kind of wanted to get this whole affair over with. You chewed your cheek, watching his hand fall between his legs, rubbing and palming the bulge behind the fabric. 

_Damn. It._

He stared at your naked pussy, continuing to tease himself, stroking his concealed cock back and forth, allowing it to grow larger in his trousers. Johana shifted underneath you, and you stole a glance--her blue eyes were glued to her husband, her lips separated by mere millimeters. She wanted him, too. 

The jangle of a belt, a short zip--your attention was back on him, hypnotized as his pants and underwear fell to the middle of his thighs, his dick springing free. Now _your_ lips parted, saliva spilling into your mouth as you gazed at his length. His cock was huge--bigger than you’d ever seen. And you were supposed to take _that_? 

Ren’s head tilted while he inched forward, putting himself in position, the head of his cock only inches from your cunt. You were positive you’d forgotten to breathe, evidenced by the lack of circulation in your fingers. Or perhaps that was because of Johana, grinding your bones in her hands. He said nothing, the flicker of lust snuffed out, now, as he observed your pussy like a blueprint. Blinking, he gripped his dick, leaning over you and parting your folds with the tip. Your breath hitched--but if he had noticed, he didn’t care, taking his time to coat the head of his cock in your slick before furrowing his brow and pushing in. 

You restrained any noise, as you’d been taught--pleasure was not part of this--but it was difficult when he stretched you, breaking you open with a long, deep thrust. Instinctively, you clenched around him--and, against all convention, he lost control of his detachment, a tiny groan escaping his throat.

Johana’s hands crushed yours, and you flinched, seething in silence. But you were unable to tear your eyes from him as he rolled his hips, pulling out and thrusting back in, this time ignoring the delighted flutter of your walls around his cock. You wanted to hate this--wanted to hate _him_ \--but instead you found yourself memorizing him. The smoky musk of his body, the hint of skin between his jacket and trousers that he’d exposed, the girth of him prying you apart. And, strangely, your face fell at his studied, solemn expression, his focus trained on the feeling of your pussy swallowing his dick--rather than on you.

Another thrust, and another, and his head bowed, a few messy locks of hair drifting into his face when his pace quickened. Ren shifted, angling himself to fuck deeper into you, his jaw dropping as an undeniable tide of bliss washed over him. His breath, stifled by necessity, was coming in pants, his chest unable to suffocate the grunts of effort while he chased his climax. Johana’s breathing was in sync with his, her grip attempting to pinch you in two--and you were drowning, torn between wanting to disappear and wanting to release the moan trapped inside of your lungs.

Ren grunted again--louder, this time, his lids shut in concentration. His hips smacked yours, your body rocking into Johana’s, who was muttering unintelligibly. Repression smothered all three of you, unspoken and strangled desires greater than your roles, greater than the Ceremony, greater than God. You wanted to want the Commander, wanted him to want you, wanted Johana to fade into the wall, wanted this to be intimate--passionate. But it wasn’t, it could never be, because you were a hole to fuck, a vessel for his seed, an unfortunate drawback of your uterus.

Hips jerking, Ren sucked in air through his teeth, and you tensed, taking the brunt of his weight as he slammed into you, a choked moan catching in his throat. Three final pumps of his pelvis, and he came, groaning and shuddering above you, finally, _finally_ completing his duty, finally filling you with his cum. 

Johana’s hands trembled in yours, her grip gone loose, and Ren recovered, waiting for his breath to even before pulling out and tucking himself away in silence. You wanted to speak, wanted to say something--anything--but your brain was blank, still reeling in awe of him. The Commander’s eyes met yours a final time, something glittering behind them, and you swallowed your spit, your hands threatening to fall onto the bed. Before they did, he left, closing the door behind him.

“Get off,” Johana grumbled, shoving you as she squirmed away and off of the bed. “Do whatever you’re supposed to do and get out.”

You blinked, for some reason blushing. You needed at least ten minutes with some sort of elevation. “Um. Can I use a pillow--”

“You want to get your disgusting mess on _my_ pillows?” She scoffed. “No. Figure it out. When I come back, you better be gone.” With that, she flounced into a side room--when the door opened, you caught tiled floors and soft lighting.

So you laid there, the Commander’s cum leaking onto your thighs, and pushed your hips into the air, a weak attempt to encourage fertilization. To be honest, you simply didn’t have it in you. Your first Ceremony--you weren’t sure what you’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been this. Not this nebula of ambiguity that ate away at your innards like a starving void. Not this vacancy of thought, of feeling. Not an undefinable ache that rippled through you, physically, mentally, leaving you wanting but omitting the want. 

You weren’t sure if you were disgusted or aroused or disappointed or relieved. All you could focus on was the heartbeat in your fingertips, the throb of your cunt, the soft, feathery noise of your breath, grounding you, inexorably, to your reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all! I'm so sorry I'm slow at updating. There is life stuff going on and it's hard for me to get back into the swing of writing at the same time! But! I am working at it, I promise.
> 
> Here is the Ceremony! Probably not the type of sex we all wanted, but... hey... we need a foil for the future, right? OOP.
> 
> Anyway, I love y'all so much, thank you to those who are entertaining my strange desire to write this fucking AU! See you soon!


	4. Naughtier Than I Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you know when you get a bad feeling about something? Like, as if everyone is trying to tell you *not* to do something? Ah, whatever.

Of course, you’d been expecting some discomfort. It was only natural that after going such an extended period of time with no sex, no _nothing_ , that you’d feel a bit sore the day after.

But you _hadn’t_ been expecting a near-crippling ache, emanating from your core down your thighs, as if your Commander’s cock had injected paralyzing venom into your bloodstream when he’d came. Every step was a reminder of the night before, and every step made your brow furrow, your teeth worry your lip. As if you needed more factors complicating your situation, desire simmered, unwavering in the face of wisdom and reason and fear; in the wake of your confusion, your lust persisted like an eager whisper.

_He’d been huge. And he’d felt incredible._

You hobbled to the kitchen, ignoring the clamoring inside of your body that, unshackled from reality, demanded you lie in his bed again, demanded you take his cock again and again and again, demanded that he pound into you and groan and spill himself, until you were full, dripping with his cum. Stupid brain. Stupid vagina. 

“Market day today,” you said, startling the other Martha--what had her name been again? Rose. She met your gaze with tiny, dark eyes, hidden deep in her pinched face. You couldn’t tell if she was terrified or furious. “Sorry.”

Rose huffed. “I’ll need milk, bread, and sugar. Do you think you can handle that, today?”

“Um, yes,” you replied. “I don’t think it’ll be too complex.”

“Then get going.”

You blinked and nodded, turning down toward the front door. “Okay…” _Wouldn’t hurt you to be a bit nicer._

“You’re not doing a good job of hiding your limp, by the way,” she called after you. Your face burned, and you grumbled, pushing forward.

Through the wooden halls of the home, you steadied your waddle, hoping to appear more thoughtful and pensive than anxious and pained. You managed to make it out of the house and down the driveway without further incident, your head swiveling for any sign of the Commander as you passed his car. Your scan was borne both of fear and anticipation. To meet his eyes again would make you a mosquito to a flame. Not just a flame. A massive column of fire. 

But he was nowhere in sight, to your possible relief and almost definite benefit. Perhaps you’d get through this day without making a complete fool-

“Little bird.” His voice cut you like a scythe, slicing the tendons in your knees. You were thankful that your dress managed to obscure your wobble.

Stiff-necked, you turned toward his voice, keeping your eyes locked to the grass at your feet. “C-Commander.”

“A proper greeting.” He stepped forward, and you hands fumbled at your sides, looking for an occupation other than sweating profusely. “Your gait seems odd. Why might that be?”

You were disintegrating in the wake of his audacity. Clearing your throat, you peeked to your right and left, convinced that any second, Johana would find you under her husband’s spell. “Not sure, sir,” you managed to choke out. “I believe I just slept, um, weird.”

He sniffed in amusement, growing closer. You cursed your stupid mosquito brain. “That’s unfortunate,” he said, and paused. “I can rectify that.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Poor sleep.” Ren’s voice dipped lower. “There’s an effective cure, you know.”

You wondered if there was a difference between the color of your dress and your face. “Um…” Was he testing you? You wanted to rebuke him, but the throbbing between your legs was tugging you a different direction. “What cure might that be, sir?”

He snickered--a dark, delicous sound. “Oh, little bird.” His fingers caught your chin, angling you in the line of his gaze. “You’re naughtier than I thought.”

Breath leaked like slow fog from between your lips, your muscles snapping with the desire to grab him by the shoulders and drag him into a hot, rough kiss. You hated this. Hated that he held your life in his enormous, strong hands, hated that he toyed with it in public like a careless child, hated that your job was to bear his child, hated that above all, you _wanted_ him, and despite every hour of internal chastisement, you could not silence the beast in your blood, could not muzzle the monster that sought to destroy you and him in a violent collision of repressed lust.

You _should not, could not_ want. And yet--

“Am I, Commander?” The words hung like hidden honey from your lips.

Ren growled, jerking you against his body, his massive frame bending so his breath brushed your ear. “Yes,” he purred. “You are.”

You drank in every second of pleasure like the brainless insect you were. “Oh…”

“I can’t stop thinking about fucking your tight little pussy.” He sucked in breath through his teeth, pressing into you, his other hand snaking around your waist. “I need to be inside of you.”

Heat liquified your insides, and you nearly wilted, kept standing by sheer willpower. “ _Shit_ …”

“Oh,” he said, “she _can_ curse…”

Underneath your dress, your body had become sweat incarnate, your skin having replaced itself with layers of eager perspiration. You imagined stripping there, in the driveway, imagined his hands on your breasts, his mouth on your cunt, your lips on his cock--everything forbidden flooding your mind like a river from a burst dam. But the water boiled, burned and ate you away, turned you to a writhing mass of instinct and need. 

“Commander, not here,” you whimpered, as if _here_ was different from _there_ , as if there existed a place where his words weren’t illegal, where your body was something greater than its parts. “If you… If I…”

“ _Little bird_ …” Those soft, pink lips ghosted your ear, and you shivered, clenching. “Let me fill you with my cum, tonight…” His tongue, wet and warm, grazed your skin.

“Oh, _fuck_ …”

A squeak of a hinge, and Ren released you, drawing back his claws and spinning on his heel to his car. Your heart flipped, your eyes scanning the front of the house in terror--but it was empty. Relief left you in a long exhale while you sought his gaze, searching for, for some reason, some camaraderie. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, adjusting his tie as he strode to the driver’s door.

“I’m late,” he said, as if he hadn’t just spent the past however-many minutes making you wet. “Be good.”

You swallowed, statue-still while he got into his car, cranked the engine, and backed out, peeling off onto the road without a spared moment of further acknowledgement. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, trapped by the tattered ribbons of his seduction, waiting for it to leave you like poison. How stupid _were_ you, exactly? If you’d been caught--by Emma, by Rose, by Johana, hell, by _anyone_ , your life was forfeit. Was it worth it? Were the whims of your cunt worth your life? You wanted to slap yourself. You wanted _him_ to slap you, even--but that made you clench, too. Dammit!

“Uhm--”

You yelped, whirling on this new voice, clamping your hands over your mouth when you saw it was only your walking partner. _That’s not suspicious_. Her skin was dark, her lips full, her locks growing in tight waves at her hairline before being swallowed by white fabric. And she was looking at you with a strange mixture of confusion and fear.

“Blessed be the fruit,” you offered, smoothing the front of your skirts.

“May the Lord open,” she replied. “You--you’re Ofkylo, right?”

Nodding, you shuffled forward. “Yes,” you said. “I am.”

“Ofarmitage.” The look on her face hadn’t changed.

Chewing your cheek, you glanced at the ground, following her lead as you began to move toward the markets. You hoped it wouldn’t be too long. You were wincing from the walk already. “So,” you said. “How long… had you been standing there?”

“You should really stay away from him.” Her voice was low and severe. 

You gagged on your own spit. “W-what?” 

“Your Commander,” she said. “Stay away.”

“Uh…”

“Look,” she said, barely a whisper. “I get it.” You weren’t sure what that meant. She _got it_? She got what? “Do what you want. But if you aren’t more careful, you will end up like the others.”

Blood fled your face. A robin leapt into the sky in front of you. “The others…”

“You know you’re not the first Ofkylo, right?”

You shook your head, trying to regain your bearings. Conversation like this was almost as illegal as what you’d been doing with the Commander. Well. Was there _almost_ when it came to illegality? “Yes,” you replied. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“Okay,” she said. “Then you can probably figure out what happened to the other ones.” You couldn’t see beyond the shield of your wings, but you heard her voice grow closer, like she’d turned her head. “He’s reckless.”

“Reckless,” you repeated, like it would help burn it into your skull.

“Reckless.” She was distant again. “He doesn’t care about you, or his wife, or anyone. So do yourself a favor and watch out for _you_.”

You nodded. Maybe you could pump her for more information. “Do you know what--”

“Shh,” she chided. “Checkpoint coming up. Don’t mention this again.”

You didn’t.

The rest of the walk was spent in silence, with Ofarmitage offering not even a friendly comment about the weather before you arrived back at your Commander’s home. Your limp had worn with the passage of time--or perhaps you’d just grown numb to the pain--but even still, you straightened your back while you made your way into your home, groceries in tow.

Your brain was still, unfortunately, busy with the Commander’s words, each of them a pest in their own right, swarming your rationality with their desire-drunk bellies. As you dropped the groceries off with Rose, you wiped your palms on the front of your dress, pulling your lips in between your teeth.

“Here you go,” you said, gesturing to the table. “Everything you asked for.”

Rose cocked her head and advanced, rifling through your spoils, nose scrunched as she counted off her requests. “Milk. Bread. Sugar.” She frowned, her beady gaze nailing you to the floor. “Where’s the butter?”

You blinked, flustered. “Um, you didn’t request any butter.”

She snorted. “Yes, I did.”

“I--I’m fairly certain you didn’t.”

“Ms. Johana requested _butter_ ,” she hissed under her breath. “Therefore, I also requested _butter_. Did you just forget?”

“No, I didn’t--” You stopped, examining her. Her gaunt cheeks were ruddy, her thin lips pinched. “You didn’t--”

“Rose.” It was Johana, sweeping into the kitchen and pulling on a pair of white gloves. Her hair was pulled back in an elaborate braid. “One of the Wives has taken ill. I’m departing to see her.” Her eyes flitted to you. “Did this one remember all of the groceries?”

“No, Ms. Johana,” Rose replied. Her tone was the vocal personification of lying prostrate at Johana’s feet. “Unfortunately, she forgot the butter.”

Johana wrinkled her forehead. “I wanted butter for the Commander’s dinner tonight.” Her gaze snapped to Rose. “If he has to eat alone, he should at least have butter, Rose.”

“I know, Ms. Johana.” Rose’s eyes had locked themselves to the floor.

Now Johana speared you with her stare. “And you _forgot_ it?”

Your mouth was drier than salt. “I…” You glanced between Rose and Johana, wanting to pin the blame on Rose--after all, _she’d_ forgotten to tell you. But the knowledge it’d only further sour your relationship with her and make you appear like a rat stilled your tongue. Rose had something to lose with Johana. You didn’t. She already hated you. “I did. I’m sorry.”

Her nostrils flared, and she shook her head. For a moment, you swore her eyes had glossed with tears. “Useless.” A muscle in her jaw tensed. “Fine. I suppose he won’t need butter with his meal, tonight. Rose, you can let him know who the responsibility falls to.”

Rose nodded. “Yes, yes ma’am.”

“Good.” She sighed--and without a word, marched from the kitchen.

Her absence made your shoulders sink--and to your surprise, so did Rose’s. She said nothing, snatching the groceries from the table and bringing them over to the counters. The swarm in your brain revived itself. Johana had said she was leaving. And that the Commander would be eating alone.

“She’s… kind of rough on you guys.” You tried to sound as casual and innocently curious as possible.

Rose snorted. “No rougher than any other Wife.”

“Right,” you replied, like you implicitly understood her meaning. “Just seems tough.”

Silent, Rose shrugged, continuing to gather ingredients for dinner.

Biting your lip, you went for it. “Does she… leave frequently?”

“Depends,” Rose said. “Usually only when another Wife is sick.”

“Oh,” you said. “How long does she usually stay away?”

Rose froze, and you gulped. That had been a little too far. Like a shadow, she turned her head, staring into the wall. Her voice was soft. “If you’re going to lie with the Commander, don’t be so transparent about it.”

You went stiff. Time to leave. Grimacing, you nodded, pivoting to escape to the room. 

“She’ll be gone all night.”

Her words jerked you like you’d been on a chain. She’d given you a gift. You weren’t going to push it. Holding your breath, you continued your way back upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, this is chapter 4 of my Handmaid's Tale AU! If you still have no idea what I'm talking about, I highly recommend just reading the Sparknotes synopsis or the Wikipedia page for the book. It might make things more clear.
> 
> Sorry that I'm so terrible with updating. I want to get back to one chap/week, as I had done previously. Hopefully I'll get there!
> 
> Your feedback is so special and important to me! Thank you so much! I love y'all!!


	5. I Like to Enjoy Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to say what isn't a sin, at this point.

Dammit. This was wrong.

As you waited for sunset, fear was a boulder in your bed, pressing you into the mud of the earth, through the thick wet dirt and against the bedrock. This was wrong.

Then fear dug its talons into your back--a greedy, dark imp, burrowing into the muscle--when you crept from the bed into the hall, guided only by the shafts of moonlight flat on the floor. This was wrong.

In the silence of the night, fear dragged from your ankles like noisy chains, every step a bid to return to sleep, to forget his voice, to resist the blatant manipulation he’d managed to cast. This was wrong.

It was the promise of something other than emptiness--the promise of some reprieve from your reality--that would see you crawl through shattered glass. Even if this refuge was granted by the hands of your Commander. Even if part of you knew the possible consequences for disobeying him inspired at least half of your motivation. Maybe he’d do nothing. Maybe he’d make your life more unbearable than it already was.

This was wrong. And it was survival.

You arrived at his bedroom door, a crimson ghost, your hands wet and your heart lodged somewhere in your esophagus. Breath cycled through your lungs, faster and faster with every second. The longer you went without knocking, the more likely you were to scurry back to what they called your room. Anyone could discover you, now. 

Emma--perhaps your rapport with her would earn you a blind eye. Rose--you knew she didn’t like you, but maybe she liked Johana even less. And then Johana herself. How were you to know that Rose was even telling the truth? Here you were, in front of your Commander’s bedroom door, in the middle of the night, with the assumption his Wife would be absent. This could have been a set up. You should have turned back. An imitation of human connection wasn’t worth this.

That settled it. You were going to turn around, head back to your room, and strap yourself to your mattress. Resign yourself to what was undeniable: you were not free. You would never be free. And despite how badly your body ached, this was _wrong_ \--

The door swung open, air rushing past you and stealing your oxygen as it went. Your eyes, stuck to the floor, identified a set of polished Oxfords, and travelled up, daring you to linger in areas you wanted to desperately ignore or forget. Up, up, beyond his legs, his torso, his chest and shoulders--far too broad to be sensible--to rest, finally, on his face. A face that, by all logic, should repulse you. And for a moment, it did. It was a face of arrogance, of selfishness; a face that represented everything that had been taken from you--your agency, your independence, your _life_. 

Here you stood, a veritable plaything in his universe, and all he could do was dangle you over the fire he had kindled. For amusement. For his own pleasure. For his own greedy desire. Really, you could _slap_ that face. 

“Little bird.” His voice was black satin. “Good to see you.”

You swallowed, frowning. It was as if you were standing on a pane of cracking glass. Insubordination would make another gamble with your life. But you were already here. And now, it was just you and him. Alone. 

“Wish I could say the same.”

Ren raised a brow. Your heart skipped, your muscles tight--but then he smirked, shifting his weight. “Yet, here you are.”

Steeling yourself, you decided that the envelope could use a bit of a shove. “As if I have a choice.”

Silence. Ren’s eyes scanned your figure--a move that, despite yourself, sent a shiver up your spine. “Come in.” When you didn’t move, his gaze narrowed, and he stepped aside. “ _Come in_.”

You pulled your lips in over your teeth and shuffled into his bedroom for the second time. Though it was decidedly a less oppressive atmosphere without Johana’s presence, when you heard the door close behind you, you found yourself wishing she was there.

The sounds of Ren’s shoes were sharp on the polished hardwood, tensing your body with every click. He stopped behind you, a beast breathing down your back, ready to snatch you in his massive claws and consume you in a single, bloody bite. Your knees were weak. Saliva was glue in your throat. When you went to breathe, the pool of air was shallow--but still you drowned. 

“Are you saying,” he said, trailing the tips of his fingers up your arm, “that you didn’t have a _choice_?”

You shuddered, forcing the words over your tongue. “Yes, Commander. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Hm.” His digits slid back down, sending ripples of goosebumps over your skin even through your clothes. “Not sure I appreciate the insinuation.”

Holding back a snort, you rolled your eyes instead--at least he couldn’t see that. “Not sure I appreciate...” You stopped. _Being a walking womb_ were the next words, but they died on your lips. You stiffened your jaw. “Isn’t this a job for your Wife?”

“Johana?” he asked, as if she was entirely irrelevant. Fingers swept up to your shoulder, brushing across your back. “Her inability to complete this job is why you exist at all.”

Emma’s words echoed in your head. _He’s an extremist_. “Oh,” you said.

Ren snickered, his other hand tracing along the side of your waist. Against all logic, against all rationality, you clenched. “I suppose you’re right, in some aspects,” he said, massaging you above the layers of modesty. “Though I think that we both know that to deny me is the safer choice--a choice you still have, mind you.” He stepped closer, his warmth suffocating. The scent of sandalwood filled your nose. “But you _chose_ to be here…” To your horror, he bent close, his breath washing over your sensitive neck, stiffening every tiny hair. “You _want_ this.”

Oxygen flooded your chest, your head dizzy. “ _Fuck_ ,” was all you could say.

“Mm,” Ren purred, tugging you against his body. A distant part of your mind ached to feel his need beyond the barriers of fabric. “Filthy mouth.”

Were you really giving in so easily? “You could just wait until the next Ceremony,” you said, even as you stepped back to make yourself flush with his frame. “We don’t have to do this now.”

He huffed, brushing off your suggestion as nonsense. “A monthly tryst is hardly sufficient to achieve our goal,” he said. “And besides…” He ghosted his lips over your throat, forcing a whimper from you. “I like to enjoy myself. Don’t you?”

It wasn’t fair. Knowing you were denied the chance to experience or even acknowledge desire, he wielded the ultimate weapon: opportunity. You’d worked for years to silence that part of yourself, to rip out its roots. But he knew just as you did that it was intrinsic to your existence. An attempt to eliminate it would be an attempt at self-lobotomy. Impossible. Foolish. Futile. And though you couldn’t--you shouldn’t--you _wouldn’t_ \--

The words spilled like liquid lust over your lips. “I do, Commander.” 

Ren growled, his grip hardening to iron, and he licked a warm, wet line along your pulse. “I know you do.” One hand continued to caress your waist, while the other snaked to your chest, squeezing what could be identified of your breast. “I knew it from the moment I met you.” His teeth nipped the thin skin of your neck, and you flinched. “Writhing in your sleep, moaning....” He bucked his hips into you, an attempt to satisfy his aching arousal. “Like a little _slut_.”

Shame smothered you, and you strangled a whine. Looking at yourself--a Handmaid, a vessel of chastity, a mobile womb, willingly melting to the seduction of her Commander--could you say he was really, truly wrong? It was just as you’d been taught. Only one type of woman would want this. 

“Yes, sir,” you whimpered. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Ren nuzzled into your throat, littering it with hot, wet kisses. “I _love_ fucking little sluts like you.”

His words fogged your brain with desire and forced your thighs together to seek friction. You gasped and swallowed, reaching behind you to grip his hips. “Y-you do?”

“Mhm.” His hands fell to your waist, working your skirts up your legs, and he leaned over you, watching as he exposed your feet, your calves. His hair tickled the scorched flesh of your neck. “I love making their needy little cunts cum around my cock.”

“Oh…” God, he was nasty. And he was right. You needed more. “Commander…”

You groped behind you, seeking his clothed erection, and muffled a gasp when you grazed its massive, hard length. Biting your lip, you squeezed it, and he grunted, snapping his hips into your palm while he gathered the hem of your skirts around your hips. All that remained was your excuse for underwear--an issue you would remedy, if you weren’t so busy jerking your Commander through his pants. Christ, this was wrong. Passion and intercourse were supposed to be separate. There was no rutting, no moaning, no touching to tease or to pleasure--but feeling him thrust so eagerly into your fist was intoxicating. Your mind spun with possibilities--the things you’d never thought you’d get to do again--with one taking priority.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Ren held your skirts high with one hand, while the other crept over your thigh, resting between your legs. You squealed, instinctively grinding onto his fingers, pleasure and hunger hijacking your senses from mere anticipation. “Oh, _yes_. It is.”

Wincing, you nodded, another wave of shame washing over you. You were pathetic. 

Ren grazed your cunt from above the fabric, and then reached for his own pants, swatting your fist out of the way to unzip himself. You swallowed, allowing him to walk you forward until you were against the bed, his mouth kissing up around your wimple. It was a long, torturous waddle--with every step, you felt the heavy ache between your legs, felt the urgent, undeniable clamoring for a sensation you’d been deprived of too long. 

When you hit the bed, he shoved you forward, your face planting into the soft quilt. Too nervous to make a noise, you held your breath while he threw your skirts up your back and worked your underwear down your hips. The minute you were exposed, you heard the clatter of his belt buckle hitting the floor, and your pussy throbbed. 

“Fuck,” you whispered. “Oh, fuck.”

Ren chuckled, letting you wallow in your anxiety, the weight of his stare resting on your naked ass and cunt. “Look at you,” he murmured. “So _wet_.” He released a long breath--he was testing his own patience, now. “Do you remember what it feels like to be wet, little bird?”

You nodded. Of course you fucking did. All you wanted to remember right now is what his hands and mouth felt like on your skin. 

“Let me hear you.”

A shivering sigh. “Yes, sir. I remember.”

“I can tell how wet you are without even touching you,” he said. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say it.”

Wincing again, you closed your eyes, hiding from your own humiliation. It wasn’t enough for him to mock you. He had to whittle you to nothing, too. “I want you to touch me, Commander.” At your embarrassment, you throbbed. Your clit was stiff. “Please.”

“Mm.” 

His hum of approval was followed by the warm kiss of his fingertips along the sensitive lips of your pussy, feathersoft at first, and then one thick digit slipped between your folds, gliding between them, slicking itself with your wetness and grazing the swollen nub of your clit. That did it--blinded with relief, you cracked, moaning deep in your chest. Blood flushed your face, tingling your cheeks.

“You like that?” He brushed the bundle of nerves again, earning another shuddered groan. “You _are_ desperate, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you replied, the sentence coming without thought. 

“Good.” His hand wrapped around your thigh and fell to your clit, swirling around it in tight circles, and you gasped, your mouth dropping in bliss, your rapid panting nearly drowning out the new sound of soft, fleshy shuffling. “It took everything I had not to pound this cunt last night…” A stifled moan cut through his throat, and you echoed him at the realization. Dammit. He was jerking off. “Now it’s just you and me.”

You cried out, your pussy clenching, craving to be filled by him. “Commander, please…”

“Please _what_?” he growled.

Grimacing, you gripped the quilt, bunching it in your palms. You didn’t care that he was your Commander--you didn’t care who he was at all, as long as he was going to make you cum. And the way his fingers stroked your clit had you spasming, jerking--so _close_ to cumming, ending a years-long drought. Legality be damned, _you_ be damned. So what if your life was in danger--what was your life without living?

“Please.” You banished hopelessness to the perimeter of your mind. Asylum. Just this once. “Please, fuck me, sir.”

Without hesitation, Ren’s hand left his cock to wrest your hip, and he plunged into your warm, wet cunt, choking on his breath as you whined and pulsed around him, enveloping him to the base. Fuck, you’d forgotten how big he was. It still stung. He cursed, still working your clit while he seated himself inside your pussy, something hitching in his throat, as if he planned to speak. But instead, he pulled out and thrust in again, grunting in disbelief.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Yes…”

Ren slid out and slammed into you, the smack of skin louder than your snuffed moans, moans that became harder to silence as he sunk into your cunt again, and again. His hips collided with your ass, tremors echoing through you, the calloused pads of his digits rubbing your stiff, swollen nub in time with his quickening thrusts. Your nails clawed at the quilt until you moved to bite your thumb in an effort to shut yourself up.

Pleasure glowed from your center, the eclipse of despair dissipating the harder your Commander pounded you. Your brain emptied for pure carnality, nothing but physical need and response. Ren switched his strategy, brushing your clit back and forth while his other hand yanked you back, holding you there while he drove into your pussy, another curse escaping him. Ecstasy took reign of your mind as if it’d never left, blurring any demand but the one to cum, and cum _hard_.

“Commander,” you said, “I’m--I’m--”

“Don’t cum yet,” he snarled.

You wailed into your knuckles, struggling to anchor yourself to reality, and Ren stepped forward, leaning over you, the angle allowing him to ram deep into your cunt and the head of his cock to hammer your cervix. The entirety of your hand replaced your thumb when you screamed, the pain evolving fast into a euphoric rapture. His fingers flicked at your clit, and then you were there, at the edge, ready to erupt into white-hot lava and flow over his bed. Words left you without warning, spat between your teeth.

“Please Commander, please, please, _please_!” You needed to cum. You needed to fucking cum.

“Shit...” he moaned. “Cum for me, slut.”

His permission was your deliverance, and you snapped, releasing your body to its whims as you came hard around his cock, pussy squeezing and milking him while he pumped into you. Every muscle from your toes to your eyelids twitched as pleasure wracked them, and it was by luck only that you remembered to bite your bliss into the flesh of your palm. Behind you, Ren found his release, seizing your hips in both fists as he spilled himself inside you, his moans restrained in his chest. Quiet, quick breath was the only noise the either of you could make.

When he had come to a stop, you braced for him to pull out, but he waited there, his dick plugged inside of you. Your heart twisted as you realized--an assurance that you’d keep his seed. You sighed. Pleasure still prickled your toes.

“It’s in your interest,” he said. “There’s a reward for producing a healthy child, isn’t there?”

Blushing, you nodded. Your breath still needed to even out, anyway.

After a moment, his cock had become too soft to stay inside of you, and he slipped out, followed by the sound of his buckle being latched and his trousers being zipped. Silence drifted over the room--you felt him staring again. You knew at this point you should be getting up, escaping back to your room. But cumming on his dick had temporarily stupefied your brain.

Ren chuckled, as if you were a dog who’d forgotten to sit. “I suppose you need a moment,” he said. “When I return, I expect to see not a hint that you were here.” The dull noise of movement, a door opening (the bathroom, if you remembered), a door shutting. Then nothing.

You swallowed, face burning while you tugged up your underwear and flipped back your skirts. Straightening your wimple, you stood, then smoothed out the quilt where you’d crinkled and--to your minor embarrassment--drooled. Well. That would dry up, certainly. Chewing your cheek, you rubbed it with your finger, anyway, convinced that would spread out the stain. That having failed, you turned and skipped toward the door, like the floor was hot rocks. 

Holding your breath, you wedged yourself through into the hall, easing the door shut behind you. The rest of the home you treated like a loaded spring trap, double-testing every step until you had made it back to the familiar, tiny room. It wasn’t until the tension had a chance to leave your body that exhaustion flooded you. You didn’t have the energy to run through the possibilities or consequences. Whatever would come tomorrow, you figured, this had been worth it. You closed your eyes and collapsed onto your bed, your pussy aching. Sore. 

Satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for being so, so patient with me! I really enjoyed writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoy reading it. It's been great to hear feedback from people who really enjoy the story and then people who have read The Handmaid's Tale because of this! That's so great. 
> 
> Let us HOPE and PRAY I can crank out chapter 6 for next week. Love y'all! Thanks so much!


	6. This Isn't Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pride cometh before the fall. Not that you've done anything wrong.

“Blessed be the fruit,” said Ofarmitage, her voice soft as she approached.

“May the Lord open,” you replied, taking up pace beside her.

It’d been a week since your last, er, _meeting_ with the Commander. He’d been busy since then--you hadn’t even had a chance to see him since that night. You knew you should’ve been relieved, but your heart had carried a stone from sunrise to sunset. As much as you hated to admit it, the encounter with him had sparked something inside of you--whether it was need or affection or desperation or simply ill-gotten pride. But you couldn’t possibly be _proud_ of what you’d done--could you?

“You didn’t take my advice,” hissed Ofarmitage.

Heat rushed your cheeks. “Uh, what? What do you mean?”

“Shh!” Her voice was sharp. “Keep your voice down.”

You swallowed and said nothing. Your guilt rolled out at your feet like a soiled red carpet.

“The way you’re carrying yourself,” she said, finally. “Your shoulders. Your back.” 

As if to prove her wrong, you shoved yourself into a hunch, frowning. “I don’t know--”

“Watch your _volume_.” She sighed. You weren’t sure why she kept saying that when she was being so damn loud herself. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

You wanted to speak, but your throat had become the consistency of marshmallow. A flash of fire washed over you. If it was this obvious to her, had it been obvious to Johana and the Marthas, too? Perhaps it was good that you’d barely left your room in the week since he’d railed you into his mattress. Then again--they had no proof. And really, it was you he’d broken the law to be with, not any of them. If anything, he was the real one in danger. Totally.

“I can handle myself,” you muttered. What had he said? _I_ love _fucking little sluts like you_. See? He _loved_ it. You had more power than Ofarmitage was giving you credit for. “I don’t--”

“Shh.” She tilted her head a centimeter. “I know how you feel. Just watch yourself.”

You blinked. She _knew_ how you felt? “What do you--”

“Not now.”

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you nodded. Better to acquiesce than to let loose the figurative worms this close to a checkpoint. Your soles scuffed at the cement as you dragged yourself forward, the wind a whisper at the hem of your skirts, your hummingbird heart beating its wild wings. If anything, she’d given you _some_ valuable information. You _were_ proud of what you’d done. Just like a slut. 

Your face burned. 

Another silent market trip ended without a farewell as Ofarmitage left you at the entrance to your Commander’s home. Groceries in tow, you trudged up the steps, conscious of your shoulders and back as they dared to straighten. It was a folly of pride, you knew, to believe your importance any more weighty than the Ofkylos that had stood on this very stoop before you. But it was a feeling you couldn’t shake--the glimpse of acknowledged humanity, the respite from misery far too intoxicating to resist imbibing. In a life of endless nightfall, you’d identified a single, razor-thin shaft of sunlight. And you were going to bathe in it.

The door swung open--it was Emma, who raised her brows in acknowledgment while you followed her inside. Her red hair was coiled in a tight, thick bun. You wondered what it looked like before Gilead--if it had tumbled down her back in copper waves, if it had bounced and shimmered in the sun, if it had went frizzy with sweat when she had spent too much time in the summer heat. You thought to ask her, briefly--but then wondered if she’d even remember.

You followed Emma into the kitchen, eyes cast to floor, ignoring any possible presence, and dropped the groceries on the table, prepared to dip into the hall and escape to your room. 

“Where are you going?” 

You jerked to a stop, muscles petrified from the mere sound of Johana’s voice. It was fortunate that you were to avoid making eye contact with her to begin with--you feared that she’d see your sin in the echo of your expression. Releasing a breath through your nose, you turned, gaze still trained on your sweating feet. Thankfully, she couldn’t see that, either.

“Just returning to my room, Ms. Johana.”

Johana laughed--the last sound you wanted to hear. “Stand over there.” 

You glanced up to see Emma and Rose in one corner of the room, hands folded, heads bowed--and in the other corner, Johana and the Commander. He scanned you almost imperceptibly, and you met his stare, your eyes wide, before catching yourself and shuffling to join the two Marthas.Your heart catapulted through the ceiling, your brain spinning. Why was he here? What did she know? Were you in trouble? Were _they_ in trouble? Johana sighed like she’d just sat down at a buffet. 

“So, let me show you, Sir. Before this one left this morning, I gave explicit instructions to Rose that I required a filet, salt, and _butter_ for tonight.” Your breath hitched--Johana had made her way to the groceries and was rifling through them. Beside you, Rose shifted millimeters. That’s not what she had told you. “Filet… bread--not necessary, but fine-- _butter_ …” Johana paused, pawing through the items a second, then third time. “Salt. Salt--no salt. No salt.”

“No salt,” Ren repeated.

Dread dripped down your spine. You pulled your lips into your mouth. No salt. 

Then the click, click, click of Johana’s shoes as she advanced on the three of you, a snake spitting venom from between her teeth. “No salt,” she said. “Do we have to review how to take grocery orders? Because clearly, we’re missing something.”

“Sorry, Ms. Johana,” said Emma and Rose, in unison. You cursed yourself. Did they have a chance to rehearse this?

Johana spun, speaking to her husband. “Sir, I want to apologize that you have to be cursed with such deficient help.” Another sigh--this one fuming. “Which one of you was it?” She was coming closer. “Emma?”

Emma was silent. You heard Rose’s breath stop. Did she want you to take the fall again? Could you?

“What about you, Rose?”

When she said nothing, Johana closed in on you, a lioness, ready to shred you with only her words. Fear throbbed in your temple. Could you honestly humiliate yourself in front of the Commander? Even _if_ Johana already hated you, was admitting to screwing up twice in a row really worth the possible consequences? Didn’t Rose deserve punishment, just this once? The fact that you asked yourself that question made your stomach churn.

“It was you, then,” Johana said. Cruelty laced her voice. “I wonder--should such a _stupid_ girl really be the vessel for _my_ child?”

You winced. That hurt--but what hurt more was the fact that, for some reason, you expected the Commander to defend you. And, of course, he didn’t.

“What do you think, Sir?” Johana’s tone had sweetened to honey when she turned her attention back to Ren. “Is such a worthless Handmaid really worth keeping around? Do you think we need to ask for a new--”

“It’s not her fault.” 

The kitchen fell silent, the revelation hanging like overripe fruit. Johana was quiet while she turned to Rose, closing the distance by one step. Then another. You caught Rose’s hands from the corner of your sight. They were whiter than marble in the countertops.

“Rose?” she asked. “Was this _you_?”

Anger slithered in place of your receding fear. It was just salt. You couldn’t believe that the Commander himself could truly care this much about _salt_ \--and when you snuck a peek at his face, he appeared nothing more than completely bored of the entire affair. This was a power-play for Johana. What you couldn’t figure out was why he was entertaining it to begin with. The confusion stoked your frustration even further. 

“What happened?” Johana spat.

Rose’s voice trembled. “I mistakenly instructed her to get bread instead of salt, Ms. Johana.”

“What?” Could she really be this incredulous? “Why?”

“I had just noticed we were out of bread, ma’am,” she said. “I was confused.”

Johana snorted. “No,” she replied. “You weren’t confused. You were _stupid_.”

“Yes,” Rose said. “Yes ma’am.”

“Say it.”

“I was stupid, ma’am.”

You couldn’t believe Rose was doing this. The fact that she was forced to endure this sort of abuse over a simple mistake--after all she did for Johana daily--made you question if you should have insisted that it had been you, instead. 

“Sir,” Johana said, moving toward Ren. “You see, I _really_ do my best for you.” At this, you looked up--she was in front of him, a sickeningly sugary smile on her face. “I wish you’d see that.” Then she reached for him, her fingers brushing over his arm. “You do, don’t you?”

Ren was stone-faced--and in that moment, you understood. Johana wanted to show her superiority. She’d forced him here, in a ploy to prove her worthiness to him. The notion made you nauseous--and, disgustingly, arrogant. Your pride, nearing the edges of hubris, swelled. Here she was, wasting her time attempting to earn her husband’s good graces--all the while, he was making _you_ cum. Not her. She didn’t have power over you. You had power over _her_.

So, of course, granted this power, and hot with fury, you decided to brandish it. 

“Why are you so hard on them, Johana?” came your voice, full of confidence you had long thought strangled. “It’s so unnecessary.”

Your words stole the air from the room. Johana was paralyzed, jaw dropped. Blinking, she angled herself toward you, brow furrowed. “I--I’m sorry?”

Shrugging, you replied, “Your attitude. It’s really rude.”

To your side, you heard Rose and Emma snuff internal screams. _What are you doing_ , you were sure they were thinking. But they didn’t need to worry. With the Commander here, you were certain you were safe. His words resonated in your mind-- _her inability to complete this job is why you exist at all_. 

“Who… Who do you think you are?” Johana’s voice wavered. “Sir, are you hearing this?”

Ren’s eyes darted between you and his wife--but he said nothing. Scrambling, her face fell, and she spun on you. Her hands were trembling. You couldn’t decide if you hated her or pitied her.

“You need to watch your mouth,” she said. “You are replaceable.”

You smirked. You weren’t able to resist. You needed her to know that she was inferior one. “Seems like the Commander overrules you, right now.” 

The insinuation was too much, and she snarled, baring her teeth. The lioness was ravenous. “Slut!” she screeched, and whirled on her husband. “Is that why she’s acting like this? Did you do it? Did you _fuck her_?”

Emma and Rose had gone stick-stiff beside you. You watched Ren’s face. There wasn’t a single twitch of muscle, not even a tiny, guilty flinch. Raising a brow, he leveled his wife with his stare, and replied, unblinking:

“No.” His voice hardened. “Go upstairs.”

She sputtered, a lock of hair uncurling itself at the nape of her neck. You knew, at least, that Johana’s hair frizzed. “Upstairs?” Her chin was quivering, her eyes reddening. “But you--but these--”

“ _Upstairs_ ,” he replied. “Now.”

Shaking, she faced you--the phrase “if looks could kill” came to mind, but the desire in Johana’s gaze went past _kill_ and into _mercilessly eviscerate_. Grumbling, she stomped off, the sound of her shoes ricocheting off the empty halls. Relief cascaded over you, and you drew in a long, pleased breath, meeting Ren’s eyes with the intention of communicating some sort of camaraderie--he hated her too, you figured. But your face fell. You found nothing but contempt.

“Leave,” he ordered--and as all three of you started moving, he shook his head, leering straight at you. “No. You stay.”

Your heart had tumbled down from above the ceiling and had now plummeted to somewhere inside of your toes. Not needing to be told twice, Emma and Rose scattered like mice, disappearing wordlessly into the annals of the home. You swallowed, observing the man who, only a week prior, had his mouth on your neck and his fingers on your clit. He sauntered over to you--and you realized that rather than banishing the lioness, you’d only managed to awaken the lion. 

His stride brought him within inches of you in mere steps, and gifted with the immediacy of his presence, warmth flooded you, robbing you of breath and pushing perspiration onto your forehead. Ren’s eyes, dark with animosity, drifted over you, and he frowned, snatching your chin and pinching to the bone. You whimpered.

“Should you ever temporarily lose your mind in the future,” he drawled, “remember that I will not hesitate to have you tossed out with the rest of the garbage.” 

You gulped. “But--”

He shook you between his fingers. “Never. Do that. Again.” 

Confidence shattering to smithereens, you looked to the floor. This was not how you expected this to go. You nodded, and he dropped you, starting toward the door before pausing.

“Stay in your room, tonight,” he murmured. “This isn’t over.”

Then Ren left you there, a shivering statue, skin soaking in sweat, terror, and, most horrifically--lust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck, y'all! I did it! I posted a chapter within a week! Go me! 
> 
> I really enjoy writing conflict. Johana is one of my favorite people to write in forever! I really hope y'all liked this chapter. I love hearing from people who loved The Handmaid's Tale and enjoy this story, too. It's a fun exercise for me to try and tackle something darker/more serious.
> 
> Love y'all! Your feedback and engagement means the world to me. Bye! <3


	7. You Are a Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something in Commander Ren's eyes. You know that this isn't all there is.

Perhaps the most unnerving thing about the night was the silence. In your tiny excuse for a room, the only occupation you kept during day-hours was listening to the twittering of the birds beyond your window. But the extinguishing of the sun took with it your only company--and now, you laid there, a mannequin without its master, as dead and empty as the air itself.

You weren’t sure what you had been thinking, to be quite honest. Years of suppression, oppression, repression, depression--they’d been a pressure cooker to your brain, granting you a brief moment of delicious insanity at the first indication of possible retribution. You’d _needed_ that--needed some indicator that you were still a human, still something with a mind and a mouth and the ability to use them both. In the void of moonless darkness, you questioned yourself--how long could this go on? How long could you be a silent, reluctant vessel before it became too much?

“Too much” was an undefinable quantity, however. You’d thought losing your bank account had been “too much.” Being fired from your job had been “too much.” Disenfranchisement had been “too much.” The Red Center, with all of its indoctrination had been “too much.” Watching your friends and family hollow into shells, being stripped of your name, wearing that goddamn starchy red dress had been “too much.”

Every limit you laid down was pushed further and further towards the perimeter of Hell. If you caught fire, you weren’t sure you’d even be able to realize it.

A distant creak down the hall shattered the silence. Speaking of catching fire--

Metal jingled, squeaked, and the knob on your door spun. As it opened, your chest bound itself in ice, your fingers gripping the sheets. All you could do was watch, eyes straining to identify what you already knew.

Commander Ren looked far more casual than you’d expected. The crisp woven cotton of his dress shirt glowed under the starlight streaming through your window, and the fact that it failed to gleam off his shoes told you he was in loafers--something softer, more pliant than his leather Oxfords. He wore black slacks that clung to his thighs, the first few buttons of his top salaciously undone. It seemed so ridiculous to think, now. After all, you’d seen men naked, before. But something about your Commander--here, illegally, his hair skating his shoulders and his collarbones exposed--

You’d been wrong. You were on fire, now--and you were terrified.

“Commander--”

“Quiet.” His voice was low, darker than the sky. Without another word, he shut the door behind him, trapping you in his stare. A long, vacant pause. He adjusted the cuffs at his wrists, and stepped forward, turning his gaze toward the window. “I can’t decide if you’re stupid or suicidal.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Or both.”

“Commander--”

“I said _quiet_.” Ren didn’t even glance at you. “Disrespect for my Wife is as unacceptable as disrespect for myself.” Another pause. “Had I anything less than pity for you, you’d be slated to hang tomorrow.”

You didn’t dare move. But speech was a different story. “You speak to your Wife that way all the time.”

He frowned, turning his glare on you. “I am the Commander of this home,” he said. “I can speak to whomever however I please. That includes you.” His eye twitched. “Especially you.”

The notion hardened your stomach to a rock. “Why?” you asked. “Because I’m a Handmaid?”

“Yes.” Ren stepped toward you, rounding the end of your bed. “Precisely that reason.” The fury in his gaze was red steel. Like a naive or stupid child, you found yourself wanting to reach out and touch it. 

The problem was, he’d already threatened to kill you. But he’d also said something peculiar-- _had I anything less than pity_ \--and you wanted to pounce on it like an liferaft in a storm. Anything, anything at all to give you respite from the endless, howling winds.

“You shouldn’t let her talk to me that way, then.”

He raised a brow. “That’s not how it works.”

“Why not?” you asked. “We’re both basically your property. Shouldn’t you at least do your job and keep her from trying to kill me?”

“What she does is of no concern to me.”

“That’s not fair,” you said, and realized your voice had become far too loud. Tensing your jaw, you lowered the volume. “She doesn’t get to do whatever she wants--”

“You’re right.” Ren was closer, now. The restrained rage in his body radiated from him like heat. “She doesn’t. And neither do you.” His tone changed--as if he were reciting something. “Your roles are designed to fulfill different functions. Separate _and_ equal--’

You wanted to snarl. He _was_ reciting something. You’d heard it approximately five-thousand times before. “That’s _bullshit_!” you hissed. Whoops. Forgot about the volume control. 

But your Commander hadn’t. “Watch your mouth, _little bird_ ,” he growled, from the depths of his chest. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t done?”

Perhaps he’d had a point when he’d first walked in. Perhaps you _were_ a bit suicidal. In a way, all Handmaids were. Even in the Red Center, you didn’t know a single one who hadn’t found her own way to shirk the rules, fly under the figurative radar like a weightless shadow. A subconscious, passive death wish was the only real explanation as to why some of you hoarded butter, why others would harvest threads from gilded rugs for hidden hair decoration, and why the strangest--like you--would openly, willingly talk back to their Commanders, challenging not only them, but Gilead itself.

Even still, you sunk further into the bed, hoping the mattress might swallow you before you had an opportunity to finish your thoughts. “It is, though.” Nope. No swallowing yet. “I’m the one who can produce children. She’s pointless. If anything, _I’m_ superior to _her_!”

Your Commander cleared the distance between you in two brusque steps, his strong hand darting out to snatch you by the collar of your night gown, tearing you up from the bed. When he did, your hair--grown out past your breasts now from years of being denied a trim, and straightened because it was demanded (“manageability”)--tumbled in a thick spiral over your shoulder, brushing over his knuckles as if to pacify him. And it did. Or, did something of the sort. 

Ren had stopped, paralyzed, his lungs as empty as yours. His pupils, already blown wide in the darkness, swelled, sucking in light, consuming any hint of hazel left in his iris. Those black eyes wound around each follicle of hair as what little light there was shimmered over the exposed strands. Those same eyes followed the trail up to your scalp, inspecting the tufts of fine hair that stuck to your temples with sweat. His throat knocked. The fingers coiled in your gown tightened.

His gaze drifted to yours. He was helpless. Hypnotized. And then his mouth crashed into yours.

It was, at first, like kissing a wall of stone--he was hard and cold and unyielding, forcing his lips against yours. The shock of it left you just as limp, watching his lids flutter shut, his brow knit in confusion and lust. A Commander _kissing_ his Handmaid? And not just kissing. No. The wall of stone warmed under your touch--his mouth moving, now, devouring you, his hand trembling at your sternum as he moved forward, easing you back onto the bed. He followed you, a reflection, a shadow, an elbow caging you under him as strong fingers sifted through your hair.

Skin on scalp sent a rush of tingles through your nerves, and your lips parted in a soft, unexpected moan. Ren took this as an invitation, his tongue slipping into your mouth, his knees straddling your thighs. You’d forgotten, you thought--forgotten how to kiss, forgotten what to feel or how to move. How strange that kissing now seemed more intimate than actual sex, like the rules had been reversed. Blood flooded your flesh, from your face to your toes, steamed with excitement. The laws didn’t apply to the feral desire of your body.

Part of you screamed to move, to writhe under him, to entice him with breathy, wanton gasps--the other part was frozen in confusion. This went beyond the obligation to reproduce, beyond empty, aggressive fucking. This was passion. This was _need_. You didn’t know how to respond to something like this--something real. At the very least, you might able to leverage it later. So you went along.

Color seeped into your greyscale skin, turning you bright against his body, and you groaned, finally, finally kissing him back. Ren grunted, his fingers catching in your hair, cradling your head while his tongue slid over yours, his breath hot--he moved closer, emboldened by your encouragement. You decided to encourage him further, defying every single minute of your education, and raised your shaking hands to his head, combing your fingers through the waves of his thick, black hair.

He gasped, tongue delving deeper, and you fought with him, moaning into his mouth. God, it felt incredible to touch him--to have your digits buried in his hair, to feel his body so huge and heavy over your own. You tilted your head, your hunger for him growing fangs, your hips bucking up to him, his erection painfully hard, even through the layers of fabric. Lust streaked through you--you wanted him. You _needed_ him.

Ren’s hand--the one not tangled in your hair--pawed at the neckline of your nightgown, tugging it down, before giving up and fussing with the buttons. But his fingers were too slippery, his mind pre-occupied, and he snarled against your mouth, wrenching at the fabric--stopping at the sound of ripped stitches.

“Shit.” He sat back on his knees, to your honest dismay. You couldn’t imagine what you looked like--your white nightgown bathed in blue light, your hair askew, your chest heaving and nipples poking into the fabric--but you imagined it must have been pleasing. Ren fumbled at his belt, and then his pants, before pulling free his thick, long cock. “Shit…”

Your jaw dropped. There was no way to avoid it. He looked massive, even in his own hand--even as he teased himself, guiding his fist back and forth over his length. You whined, clenching, unable to close your mouth, your gaze darting between his eyes and his dick. He was watching you--his irises crackled with desire, a tiny smirk appearing while he stroked his cock faster. You were sapped of anything but breath, fingers dancing at the thought of touching him again, your brain spinning with possibility. If only you could touch it. If only you could--maybe you _could_ \--

Biting your lip, you raked your gaze over his body, over the swatches of exposed flesh near his thighs and stomach, over the broad, strong chest threatening to burst through his shirt, over those goddamn collarbones, now shiny with sweat, to meet his stare. The connection was lightning, singeing you at the seams, Ren’s gaze consuming you with more ferocity than his mouth. In fact, the staring contest only seemed to turn him on more--his chest swelled with broken breath, smirk curling as he jerked his cock.

You grinned, wetting your lips. “Please, Commander,” you murmured. “Let me suck your cock.”

Something snapped. Ren stopped, his hand stuck on his dick, his eyes aimed at you, his face falling while he dragged himself back into reality. His brow furrowed. He was unblinking. Every blood cell in your body screeched to a stop. 

Fuck. You’d fucked up.

“Commander, I--”

“You _slut_.” His tone was edged in ire. “First, you disrespect my Wife…” He narrowed his eyes. “Now you want to _waste_ my seed in that disgusting mouth of yours?”

Oh, shit. You hadn’t been thinking. Of course, you hadn’t been thinking.

“As I said when I stepped in here,” he said, tearing your skirt up above your waist. You shivered. “You have a role.” He hooked his fingers into the waist of your underwear, yanking them down over your hips, your ass, your thighs. You were dead weight in his hands, too nervous to move. “I suppose I need to remind you what that role is.” Warm fingers skimmed the sensitive folds of your pussy, spreading them as they passed. “Shit.”

Ren leaned back over you, forearm framing your face, his other hand reaching to stroke his cock. His breath was shallow. The head of his dick pressed at you, pushing you apart, and you whimpered, clenching before he even entered you. You were quaking--and he hissed through his teeth before he sank into you, letting loose a low, deep groan as your wet cunt swallowed his cock. Pleasure smacked you--he stretched you so wide, filled every crevice--and a pathetic, mewling moan escaped.

“You are,” he said, rattled, “a vessel.” Another breath through his teeth before he pulled out and plunged in again, still unable to smother his groans. “Your only purpose is to take my cock and my cum.” His cock throbbed at the base, pulsing as he drove in deep. “Like the good little slut you are.”

Your chin quivered, your walls squeezing him when he started fucking you faster. There was a balance, at first, between the business-like sex you’d had during the Ceremony and the pounding you’d taken over a week earlier: he panted in an even rhythm, his hips connecting with yours, his eyes drilling you, taunting you. 

But without his Wife to temper him, the faster he moved, the wilder he became, unable to resist the tight heat of your pussy, unable to fight the fire that drove him to kiss you in the first place. You were quiet, tiny noises squeaking from your chest, your hands burning to grab his hair and run it over your fingers. Ren growled, hammering your cunt, and you couldn’t stop yourself--you gripped his arms, throwing your hips into his, your jaw falling open in bliss.

This seemed to spur him further--his growl evolved into a snarl, and he snatched your wrists, pinning them above your head and baring his teeth while he pumped into you. “ _Slut_ ,” he hissed. “Remember--” a vicious, painful thrust, “--your--” and another, “-- _place_.” He rammed your cervix, and you dug into your lip, silencing a scream. 

His thrusting was merciless, now, his breath ragged, and you--you were gone. The power of his hips numbed any input but pleasure, and you stared up at him, witless, writhing, unable to comprehend how _good_ he was making you feel when his fingers weren’t even on your clit. A moan leaked out--but he hated this, too. Ren’s other hand clamped around your neck like a vice. 

“Be.” He slammed into you. “ _Quiet_.” And again.

You nodded, gulping under his palm, unwilling to point out that the force of his body was knocking the bed frame into the wall, creating a rapid, angry _thunk-thunk-thunk_ as his dick pounded your pussy. Blood built in the tunnels of your ears, in your temples--the heat bringing tears to your eyes--and you gasped against him, swallowing hard, clenching and pulsing around his cock while he fucked you into the mattress.

“Fuck.” Ren buried his face in your neck, breathing sweat onto your skin, his grip on your wrists tightening, his thumb toying with your pulse. “You love taking this cock, don’t you?” He was talking himself toward cumming. “That needy little cunt begs to get fucked.” You nodded, walls contracting around his cock, and he choked. “It begs to be--shit--filled with my cum--fuck… _fuck_!”

Hips jerking, Ren’s lips crushed yours, shoving his tongue into your mouth when he came. Groans were snuffed, remnants escaping into you, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside of your pussy. He continued to kiss you, false-thrusting while his climax receded, and he released your neck and wrists. 

As he pulled away, panting, sweat slid down a loose curl, a glint of light in the darkness, and dripped onto your skin. You thought it might sizzle--you tingled as if you’d cum, too, though you knew you hadn’t. The sheer weight of lust in the room had you dizzy and euphoric. Your lips buzzed.

He slipped out, easing back onto his heels, scrutinizing you with an emotion you couldn’t name. Frowning, he wiped his mouth and tucked himself away, tossing your skirt back over your legs, and standing. You could only watch him, elated he’d fucked you--elated that he’d revealed his weakness. Some awful, twisted part of him _valued_ you.

Ren walked to the door, reached for the knob--and then faced you, spearing you with his stare. “Tell me what you are, little bird,” he whispered.

You couldn’t help it. You smirked. “A _vessel_ , sir,” you replied. 

His gaze fell to the floor. “Yes,” he said. “Good.” Then he opened the door, and he was gone.

The sound of his footsteps was soft, like leather crossing a bed of wet leaves. You listened to them, growing more and more distant, until there was only silence. Until the only sound was your quiet, triumphant breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH! I am so sorry it took me so long to update, y'all! I've been really stressed out at home, so the only energy I've had is to upload pre-written projects or co-written ones. But! This is finally up. I thought it was funny that it happened to coincide with the release of The Handmaid's Tale on Hulu... almost like it was meant to be. <3 I don't have Hulu, though.
> 
> Anyway, I love y'all so, so much. Your support means so much to me and I can't thank you enough.


	8. If You Were Smart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were stupid to try and patch things over. You hope you haven't caused more trouble.

Whatever position your Commander had left you in, that was the one in which you remained until dawn, revelling in the memory of his body heat, the soft fullness of his lips, his hand in your hair, caressing you. Holding you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d kissed someone like that.   
Maybe it’d been that long for him, too.

It was only until the sun breached the confines of your room that you gained the confidence to pull up your underwear, straighten your dress, cover yourself again. Blush reddened your cheeks as you tucked your hair into your wimple. A simple reminder of your humanity had been enough to undo him. How much hypocrisy did he carry on those shoulders? You wiggled on your gloves and exhaled, pushing out the anxiety. You weren’t sure how long you’d be able to keep this up. But for the first time in years, you felt alive.

You took your alive self down the stairs, wondering how Ren had managed to sneak through the darkness without the wood creaking beneath him. He must have had practice. Gulping, your face burned. _Practice._

Before you entered the kitchen, you could already hear her. Johana. 

“And is this dust? Is this _dust_?” Her voice was ragged and dry. You sidled up to the wall, too afraid to enter. “Did I not ask for things to be _dusted_?”

“You did, Ms. Johana.” This was Emma. She sounded dryer than Johana did. 

“Then why aren’t they?”

“They were, ma’am,” Emma replied. 

Johana snorted. “Oh, sure. Fine.” Her shoes clicked as she turned. “And you--these floors were to be _spotless_. But you missed right… right… right over here? Do you see that?”

“Yes, Ms. Johana.” Rose, this time. You debated heading back upstairs--trying to walk another day.

“What is that?” Johana asked. Rose was silent. “What is it?”

Rose’s voice trembled when she spoke. “That’s… that’s a scuff from your shoe, Ms. Johana.”

Your heart stalled. Part of you couldn’t believe Rose had just said that. The other part realized that you weren’t walking on the beginning of this verbal assault--and couldn’t believe yourself. Guilt poured over you in buckets. This was _your_ fault. Had you managed to keep your mouth shut the night before, you were sure Johana wouldn’t have been so furious now. She was spilling her latent rage over the only two people she could heap it onto. That wasn’t fair.

Staring at the ceiling, you asked for strength from God (if he was up there--recent events had you convinced he wasn’t) before rolling over and into the kitchen, the bright red of your dress catching the corner of Johana’s sight. She faced you, her eyes igniting like flint on steel.

“What?” She straightened her back and crossed her arms. “More objections?”

You pulled your lips over your teeth. Everything was warm. Too warm. “No,” you said, “I wanted… I wanted to. Um. Apologize. For what I said last night.” 

Johana was silent. Emma and Rose didn’t dare breathe. You watched the fury in Johana’s face shrink, her body tensing with confusion. Her fingers dragged over her sleeves as they fell to her sides, her gaze severe, glancing between you and the Marthas. She swallowed, looking to the floor and shaking her head before turning back to you.

“What?”

“The Commander…” you began, wondering how she’d react to you invoking his name. But she was stone. “The Commander informed me of the consequences should I do that again. And suggested that I apologize.” The lie couldn’t hurt. If she felt he was more on her side than yours, perhaps she’d cool off.

For a moment--a brief, fleeting moment--her shoulders sagged, like she was relieved, like her world had become weightless, like her doors had been unbarred. But then she breathed again, and the air of Gilead filled her lungs, bringing the shackles of reality back around her limbs. She blinked, and nodded, pushing past you into the hall.

“Come on,” she said--and when you didn’t move, shouted, “Come _on_.”

You exchanged looks with Rose and Emma, whose expressions betrayed only their desire for you to leave. Gulping, you obeyed, following Johana through the halls and out through the back door.

The sun was bright--you winced, your wings somehow not obscuring the rays enough to shield your eyes. Johana moved easily over the stones that paved the path forward, her blue skirt fluttering at her ankles--but you struggled, gathering handfuls of your dress and hoisting it up, terrified you’d trip into the yard, solidify your weakness in front her. Somehow, you managed to avoid it, trailing her into the gardens, past the maze of emerald hedges and tall grasses, into the sanctuary of flourishing lilies and roses and a bunch of other flowers you couldn’t name.

She stalled for a moment, and then sat at the wrought iron bench, staring into the algaed waters of the pond. The wind whipped by her, tiny strands of tawny hair coming loose from her long, curled braid and shimmering flaxen in the sunlight, her pupils pinpoints in the clear cobalt of her eyes. Her shoulders straightened, and she settled, her back a board against the bench. Like this, you could almost see it--the woman she used to be, before Ren. Before Gilead. Before any of it. You wondered what her family had been like. You wondered if they were still alive. You wondered if the definition of _living_ had changed.

Johana looked over her shoulder, avoiding your gaze. “Sit,” she said.

Steadying your nerves, you nodded, creeping over and taking a seat as far away from her as you possibly could. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers digging into tendons, her stare still focused on the pond, on the ripples cresting under gusts of wind, the mirror flashes of light shattering the surface. Breath left her body, as if she couldn’t be calmer.

You were petrified. Solid. Your eyes flickered between her hands and the pond, wondering why she brought you out here, brain calculating how hard you’d have to fight if she tried to drown you. A robin flitted in front of you, hopping along the pebbles at the water’s perimeter. Johana sniffed.

“Stupid animals.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Birds,” she said. “They’re stupid.”

This conversation was taking a turn stranger than you could have even anticipated. “Well,” you said, “I thought that I might have heard that birds can actually be quite smart.” Christ. Had you put enough qualifiers on that?

“Birds are like any other animal,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how smart they are. Put them in a cage, and they’ll peck themselves to death.” A pause. “Animals can’t look beyond their own instincts.”

“Oh.” Heat washed over your neck, sweat beading at your hairline. It wasn’t hot out. “At least… birds can fly?”

Another sniff--laughter or derision. “They can,” she admitted. “But leaving a cage doesn’t make them free.” She sighed, almost confidently. “And if their owner finds them, their wings get clipped.”

You cleared your throat. Something was stuck in it. You couldn’t even swallow.

“I’m not an idiot,” she said.

Words were glue in your mouth. “N-no, of c-course not. I don’t think that you are.”

“Then you must be one.” She sat up, leaning forward. “Ren had you apologize so I would spare you.” An amused huff. “He knows I’m onto him,” she murmured. “He knows.”

Any word out of your mouth had the chance to incriminate. So you said nothing.

“Your apology _is_ accepted,” she said. “But only because I haven’t caught you yet. The second I do, you’ll be forgotten. By him. By everyone. Like the rest of them.” She paused. “I’m the one who gets to stay. You know that. _I’m_ the one who lies with him at night. And I’ll be the mother to his child. Not you.” 

You tried to pretend like his cum wasn’t still leaking out of your cunt as she spoke, like you hadn’t had been working to burn into your brain the memory of what his hair felt like between your fingers. She was serious. And she wanted you to know how serious she was. You continued keeping your lips shut, hoping she’d move on without any input from you.

But she didn’t. She was silent. So silent, the sound of the wind deafened all noise. You turned, hoping to catch her expression around the edges of your wings--and it was still blank. The air chilled your face. Johana blinked, casting her gaze toward the grass. Behind you, the rumble of an engine coasted up the driveway, and she swallowed, peeking over her shoulder. Her brow tightened.

“I know him better than he thinks,” she said, looked at you. “I want you to know that.” When you didn’t respond, she stood. “The Eyes aren’t the only ones watching you.”

With that, she turned toward the house, shoes scuffing against the stone. You watched her go, her head held high, her shoulders pinned back. She’d made a full recovery. Groaning, you slumped, staring into the red mass of fabric that had become the substitute for your body. Perhaps you shouldn’t have apologized at all. You’d only exposed yourself further to Johana--the last thing you wanted to do--and now you were certain the next move you made she’d catch you and you’d be--you’d be--

“Why are you out here?”

You yelped, heart leaping into your throat as your neck swiveled so fast it popped. It was the Commander. The wind ruffled the soft curls of his hair, and your cheeks ran hot. That same hair you’d had your nails scraping through only hours before. He looked beautiful. Powerful. The dichotomy made your brain feel sick. Stockholm Syndrome was a thing--or maybe you’d been converted. Maybe you were a True Believer.

But that couldn’t be. No, because you still felt nauseous when you remembered what he thought of you. When you remembered your purpose in his home. But he wasn’t a nameless, faceless entity you could assign all of your anger to, anymore. The questionable morality made it all the more difficult to parse. The reality was, you hated everything he represented--your chains, your enslavement. But you’d have a much easier time hating _him_ if he didn’t simultaneously provide you access and indulge you in everything you’d been denied.

You swallowed, facing back to the pond. “Your Wife asked me out here.” No reason to lie. “We were talking.”

Ren came closer, his footsteps like whispers in the freshly-cut grass. Your words had tempered him, you supposed--because he stood behind you, fisting a curled tendril of iron, his voice hardened steel. “Really,” he said. “Talking.”

“Yes,” you replied with a nod. “Talking.”

His knuckles tensed, and his hand slid from the back of the bench. “What would she have to speak with you about?”

You shifted, meeting his eyes with no uncertainty. “You.”

Fire flashed over his gaze--pure, red anger--and dissolved in a blink. He blew the steam out of his nose. “And you said?”

“Nothing. Why would I say anything?”

“You wouldn’t, if you were smart.” Ren paused, meandering around the bench, his brow furrowed. He glanced over, and then stepped toward you, reaching out, his fingers grazing the underside of your chin for the shortest of seconds. “I’d like to see you tonight. Here.”

“Here?” you asked. “In the garden?”

He frowned. “Must I repeat myself?”

You blushed. “No, sir,” you replied. “No.” Johana’s words wouldn’t get out of your mind. Two secret rendezvous were risky enough. The more you added, the greater danger you were in. “I just don’t want to get caught...”

Ren stared at you, searching your face. “I know my Wife.” You frowned--for all the knowing they did, they both seemed to be missing hunks of information. “Tonight, little bird.”

You wanted to outright deny him--tell him that this wasn’t worth it, that you’d rather live out the rest of your miserable excuse for a life counting down the days until your inevitable death. You wanted to. It’d be far easier, far simpler. This was one of the times where you felt it--the possibility that you _could_ hate him, if you really wanted to. The fact that he’d put you in this position--with no true options or escape--made your skin burn.

As if you’d been given any other choice, you nodded, and replied, “Tonight.”

Without a word, Ren brushed by you, heading to the house himself. Alone again, you turned your attention back to the pond. The robin, with its blood orange breast and white-rimmed eyes, was still there, having pecked its way to the other side of the water. There must have been an untapped mine of food around the bank, you thought. Or maybe there was nowhere else for it to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Thank you all so much for your kind comments! I have loved hearing from you and hearing your thoughts about the story! <3 I'm really enjoying developing these relationships, right now, so I'm especially looking forward to the next chapter. OwO
> 
> As always, I love you all so much, your input makes my day! Thank you!!


	9. Without the Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ren wants to know you. But the more time you spend together, the less you want to know him.

Nighttime turned the garden ethereal. Soft, inky grass swallowed your footsteps as you made your way to the bench. When your shoes scraped the stone, you winced, casting your eyes around the yard, but saw only bushes, flowers, and the pond, all bleached in starlight. There was no one to hear you but God. Hopefully, he didn’t think as poorly of yourself as you did.

You pulled your arms tight to your body, sinking onto the bench and dropping your chin to your chest. It had been stupid to wear the wings and gloves, as if getting caught while in uniform would spare you a punishment. You weren’t supposed to be out at _all_ \--but you figured that without modesty, your intentions could appear far less innocent. For now, you were here because your Commander ordered you. For now, you were safe.

A sound to your left, and your head spun--Ren was crossing the path to you, his hands in pockets, his shoes casual, his shirt unbuttoned. Again. You pinned your lips between your teeth, ignoring the heat rushing through your body. Cool air whispered over your face. Stillness stole your lungs. Your Commander met you in a few easy strides, and when his gaze found yours, you looked to your hands. You hated being at his mercy.

“Come.” His voice was quiet. “Let us walk.”

Nodding, you stood, keeping your eyes to the ground while you trailed at his heels. Blood warmed your cheeks, anticipation thrumming in your heart. There was an unspoken expectation that you would have sex--but the thought of being physically intimate out here, under the eyes of the sky, constricted your throat. His gait was methodical, leading you like a man leads a dog, confident in your loyalty. He walked you past the pond, into the gardens beyond it, into the rows of tall grasses and spiral topiaries obscuring you to the windows of the first floor. You peeked over your shoulder, twisting your head to catch the tiny glass ring of your room--perhaps the only thing in this place that betrayed your existence.

If you died here, no one would know you’d tread these gardens at all.

You followed him as he crossed from the stone path into the grass, stopping there, staring out over the empty, dark lawn. Crickets chirped at his approach, the frenzy of their song surrounding you. If only the moon were full. It would have made this far less disconcerting. You wanted to speak--say anything, _demand_ anything. But nothing came.

“No Handmaid has ever talked to Johana that way before,” he said, and you stiffened, clasping your hands together. “It poses a problem for me.”

“Why?” you said. “Because she talks to you about it?”

“No.” He turned to face you, but you kept your stare leveled at your feet. “Because she talks to _you_.”

Your brows raised. “Oh.”

Ren stepped toward you. “Look at me.”

Face hot, you did. 

“I know my Wife.” He stepped closer, examining your face. “I don’t know you.”

Words failed to leave you. Instead, your stare locked with his, each of you studying the other as the stars cycled overhead. If breath left you, you missed it--you watched him watch you, watched him scrutinize every detail of your face, and watched him lose himself, for the briefest moments, as he did. He broke the spell, looking beyond you, at his home.

“I’d like to.”

You blinked. “You’d like to what?”

“Know you.” He met your gaze again. 

Before you could stop yourself, you frowned. “Why?”

“Hm.” Ren failed hiding a smirk. “You aren’t stupid. I know this much.” When you didn’t respond, he continued. “You’ve heard of the phrase _know thy enemy_?”

“Enemy?” you asked. “How can I possibly be your enemy?”

His expression grew grave. “When you speak to Johana, you are.”

“Then I won’t speak to her,” you said. “It’s not like I’m her best friend.”

“You’re not,” he said. “But you don’t need to be close to threaten me.”

You held back a snort. “How could I possibly threaten you?” you asked. “Just being out here could get me killed.”

He looked to his home again. “Mhm. But imagine, for a moment, if Johana didn’t care about catching you. Imagine if, instead, your interests aligned with hers. Her target shifts.”

_Her target becomes him_. He was right--the power you and Johana wielded together was a threat. Of course, that was by design. With all of you pitted against the other, there’d be no possibility of insurgence. But knowing that wasn’t enough to goad you into risking your neck. The human instinct of self-preservation was well-alive in Gilead--after all, you’d sooner fuck your Commander than cooperate with his Wife. What a rebel you were.

“Even still.” You chewed your cheek. “I don’t have any interest in… knowing you.”

Ren wet his lips. You remembered how soft they were. _Dammit._

“Oh, _little bird_ ,” he murmured. “I think you do.”

Just those words were enough to make you clench, to make your blood burn--you couldn’t resist the ravenous urge rising inside of you. God, forgive you for what you were about to do. 

“You’re becoming insatiable, Commander.”

In the depths of his chest, he growled, tugging you to his body. You wanted to melt into the firmness of his frame. He titled your chin up, his stare wandering over your face, steadying on your lips, and then on your eyes, his own mouth parting. His chest filled with breath, his grip on your waist tight. He swallowed.

“I am.” He slid his hand under your wings, large fingers loosening it and pushing it off of your head. It hit the ground, and your hair unfurled--free. Again. “I _am_ …”

Ren pulled you into his warmth, both hands holding your head in place as he worked his mouth, tender and needy, over your own. You whimpered, resisting the instinct to thrust your tongue past his teeth, your muscles possessed by a desire to stoke the flames, to boil in the fire of your own lust. Ren’s digits combed through your hair, tips of his fingers skimming your scalp, sending shivers over your skin. Gasping, your hands went to his belt, jerking it, begging for him to release his length. You wanted to hold it, squeeze it in your hands, even through your gloves--anything to sate the ache between your legs.

It was strange, how much you loved kissing him. Even if the thought of _knowing him_ made you nauseous, the physicality was intoxicating. Still--to need his cock, to tremble under his touch--this was different than the intimacy for which he was asking. The thought of sitting with him, sharing conversation, becoming _vulnerable_? That was another question entirely. And the unknown answer terrified you.

He snickered, pulling away, his mouth brushing your ear. “What they say about Handmaids is true,” he purred. “You’re all dirty little _sluts_.”

You choked back a groan. Any louder, and someone might hear. “But… you love it, Commander.”

“Mmf…” He tangled his fingers in your hair, shoving you into his body. “We all do,” he said. “Every one of us talks about how good it feels to fuck your filthy cunts and fill them up with cum.” Ren moved a hand to your dress, gathering it up in his fist. “But you…” His lips skated over your neck, tongue teasing your pulse, and you shuddered, clamping your thighs together. “You’re the worst I’ve ever seen.” Over the layers, he found the heat of your pussy, and grazed it.

“ _Shit_.” 

You curled your grip into his shirt, staring into the sky. The absence of the moon made the night seem endless, like time had ceased around you, like not even the Eyes had eyes. You could see yourself adrift within darkness, Ren’s mouth at your throat, his hand between your legs, could see yourself in an eternal void, your tongue slipping over his, your dress on the ground, his dick in your cunt. But reality was much colder. Even as your brain screamed to grind down his thick fingers, your arms pushed him away. Crickets were chirping. Soon, the birds would be too.

Ren grumbled when his lips released your neck, his eyes meeting yours with feral greed. “You--”

“I can’t,” you said. “Out here. I… I can’t.”

He paused, holding you, his gaze darting from your face to the house and back to you. A slow breath leaked from his nose, and he captured your cheeks between his hands again, drawing you to his mouth. The kiss was short and sharp, a dagger rending you open, and he released you, finally, his lower lip trembling.

“You are mine,” he said. “You know that.”

“I have no choice,” you replied. “ _You_ know that.”

He raised a brow. “You made a choice at the beginning.”

In that moment, you realized why he feared you and Johana. Alone, Ren was hopeless in his delusion that you had done this willingly, just as your singular resistance could do nothing to dismantle the weight in what he had said. Handmaid, Wife, or Martha--as long as women were the chess pieces of Commanders, you were all in checkmate. But stepping outside the boundaries of the game? Whether Ren, in the depths of his tarnished soul, believed you had a choice, you didn’t know. That question’s answer was irrelevant.

“A choice between death or enslavement is hardly an example of liberty.”

“Enslavement.” He sniffed. “You belittle Gilead.”

“No,” you said. “I think I’m right on the mark.”

“We _all_ have roles.” His voice was low and cruel. For a moment, he considered you, and then glanced at his foot, smearing a smattering of dirt underneath his shoe. “Without clouds to temper it, the sun would dry the earth. Without the sun, flowers shrivel like weeds and die. Without the flowers, bees starve.” Reaching behind you, Ren plucked a violet, star-shaped flower from a ceramic planter and handed it to you. “And without the bees, new life is never born.” He paused, gazing over his lawn. “There is no one role more important in the ecosystem.” Turning to you again, he almost smirked. “Liberation is found in the realization of your purpose.”

You observed the flower, spinning its stem between your fingers. “And you _decided_ my purpose for me.”

He sneered. “Does the worm ask its mother its _purpose_ , does it ask direction in fertilizing the soil? Does the lion seek out meaning in culling the herd? No. They simply are. Just as you are. Just as I am.”

“How interesting it is that you _are_ in a position to own me.”

Snickering, he took your hand in his, holding the flower up to your nose. Through your gloves, you could feel his warmth. “Oh, little bird,” he said. “I wouldn’t dare wish the burden of my position on you.” He bent forward, closing his lids and taking a deep breath through his nose. He was so near--you stopped yourself from moistening your lips. With a smirk, his eyes opened again. “It’d be so much easier for you if you accepted yours.”

Heat flashed through your face. This time, it wasn’t lust. Growling, you crushed the flower in your fist, thrusting it into his face. Ren flinched, stepping back, snatching your wrist and wrenching you toward him. His eyes were wide with untethered fury, like wild vines writhing out and consuming his body. Lip curling, he seized a fistful of your hair--and before you could protest (or, if your vagina had anything to say about it, _give in_ ), a metal creak cut through the sound of your muffled breath. 

“ _Shit_!” you hissed, tearing away from him. You stepped back, scanning for your wings, finding nothing but grass. “Where are--” 

When you looked to where your Commander had been, he was gone. Spinning, you sought out the top of his head, instead finding yourself face-to-face with a woman in a green dress. Your stomach iced over.

“Emma.” Your throat was tight. “What, uh, what is… what are you doing here?”

She frowned. “I could ask you the same question.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, do you see this? TWO chapters for TWO fics up within TWO weeks? Am I some sort of maniac? A monster? I don't know! But I got that content!
> 
> Thanks so so much everyone for all of your patience, kindness, and support for this fic. It means so much to me when people engage with my writing and get excited for it. I am so lucky.
> 
> I love y'all so much! See you next time. :)


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